Patiently
by et2brute
Summary: Steve has a thing for Tony, ever since screwing him into a mattress two months ago. The problem is that Tony is marrying Pepper. The other problem is that Steve is unhappy in the incomprehensible present, overwhelmed, and growing steadily more depressed. To top things off, Thor is back on Earth - and he's brought his brother with him. Currently under heavy revision.
1. Chapter 1

"So I'm just going to come out and say this," Tony starts the minute Steve walks through the door. He's become Tony at some point, during the arguing and the – well, the sex. The really, stupidly amazing sex they had that one time, months ago, that Tony hasn't brought up since. At all.

So he, who isn't just irritating and abrasive Stark anymore (just irritating and abrasive Tony) is unapologetic, with his hand on Steve's shoulder, crowding him and depressingly platonic about it. Not that Steve has any expectations whatsoever, or that Tony is an especially moral person – but, well. His dated apartment in Brooklyn gets lonely.

But Steve can't hold against him something he'd so desperately wanted himself. And it's not Tony's fault if Steve is basically ruined for women. And for men who aren't Tony.

But it's – foolish, foolishly awful. That's what this is.

So Steve says, "Okay," pursing his lips and crossing his arms, and Tony winces.

"You don't need to go all – Captain – on me," he mutters finally, after a long minute where he's fiddling with something in his free hand, transparent and high-tech, images flowing like magic over the glassy surface.

"I wasn't trying to," Steve replies, suddenly shy. Uncomfortably, he allows his arms to drop to his sides. Loses that flimsy barrier, that thin pretense.

Tony is looking at him, expression unreadable, and then he sets down whatever mechanical doohicky he's working on, and – it's like he's putting the world on hold.

Because this is what it has been like, for the last month and a half: Tony, busy, has his thumbs in about a million pies. He's got so many projects queued up – projects he works on simultaneously, sometimes one after the other, sometimes switching between – that it's hard to extricate him, to keep him to yourself for a while. The only time Steve ever has his full attention is when they're suited up, or when someone is perilously close to death or dismemberment, or that one time when they _fucked_ for hours until passing out.

So Tony making a conscious effort to set something down (because it really isn't that he can't completely understand and participate in a conversation while he's working on something else, he's absolutely capable of that), well, it isn't even a nod to how much he gives a shit about Steve feeling like a human, rather than a robot. It just means he's more interested in this conversation with Steve, right this minute, than – than greenifying the planet, or whatever.

"Anyway, these videos. Of you. From before," Tony is saying, and Steve isn't the type to be ashamed of something like that, except. Tony _likes _the body he has now. He talks about it all the time, even, and – maybe this means something, him bringing it up. Maybe this is why he doesn't want Steve anymore, after seeing where he's come from, how he started. Juxtaposed with his current form, crafted from the super-science equivalent of steroid injections.

Tony'd said it before: Steve isn't special on his own. He isn't. He was made.

It kind of makes him angry, and then it makes him _very_ angry, and he knows exactly what Tony is, and who, and he'd – gotten involved with him anyway.

"What are you trying to tell me, Stark," Steve sighs, agitated, and Tony's eyebrows shoot up even as his hand falls. Steve's shoulder is cold for the loss of it.

"Didn't realize it was a sore spot," the smaller man says and shrugs, going back to his – whatever, schematics for some kind of machine, except everything is suspended in the air, delicate and ever-shifting and endlessly intuitive. For Tony, anyway. For Steve, it's as incomprehensible as it is lovely; as malleable as flame and spun glass when you've only ever worked with chisel and stone.

Inwardly, Steve sighs. The future – the present, now – is always exhausting him in new ways. Just when he feels like he may be getting the hang of the Google, or interneting, it rolls over into something of such depth and complexity that he feels he may never understand this strange world. There's a very specific feeling he has, sometimes – heavy in the pit of his stomach, a kind of despair or desperation that comes of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. With no way out. And his only choice is to – evolve or die.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence where Tony continues working and Steve leans in the doorway and thinks about leaving, going back to his empty bedroom across the city to evaluate his life.

But he hates the way Tony's shut down, isn't even sure if they're fighting or who said the wrong thing. He feels like it's definitely Tony, but he's wondering if maybe he's just – misreading him again.

So he doesn't leave. He moves forward, hesitantly, and touches Tony's arm.

Tony glances up at him curiously, expression shuttered but interested. Maybe wary, giving nothing away, but ready to accept whatever Steve has to give him.

Steve thinks, I'm an idiot. I need to do better, work harder to understand him.

"It isn't," he says softly. "A sore spot, I mean. What did you want to tell me?"

Tony blinks up at him, surprised, and then smiles – crooked, kind. He reaches up and squeezes Steve's bicep.

"You looked like you were anorexic, Cap, seriously," he says. "I was just wondering if anyone ever fed you. You looked like a Holocaust victim."

At Steve's expression – which must be frozen in resolute horror, because that's how he feels – Tony's face defaults to chagrin, and he says quickly, "I'm sorry, is it too soon?"

Then he winces.

Mouth dry, Steve says after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "I don't know that there is a statute of limitations on the Holocaust. I don't know that it could ever be funny."

Tony's twisting his mouth into – or out of – something that might be a smile or a grimace. He looks like he might want to laugh or cry. Eventually he says, "I could use a break. Coffee?"

Steve smiles.

* * *

So after Thor takes Loki home, Natasha and Clint – she doesn't seem to let him out of her sight, these days, but Steve isn't familiar with the story; only the sentiment – are called off on some kind of covert-mercenary-assassin job. It appears to be business as usual for them. Tony has the best construction workers in the city rebuilding – renovating? – Stark Tower, and he isn't really talking about it, because honestly he's a bit hard to pin down. But it seems to Steve that there's a lot more going into it than simple repair work.

Bruce has retired to the Stark ancestral home along with Tony, so when Steve stops by early Tuesday afternoon, he isn't surprised to find the physicist in the kitchen. He's got one hand rifling blindly through the fridge, the other scribbling notes on yellow legal pad. They are no doubt complex equations that would hopelessly confuse Steve.

So he is not surprised that Bruce is there. But he _is_ surprised to find that he appears to be naked.

"How's this strain working for you? It's supposed to relax you without making you sleepy, and after that last time I made absolutely sure to change the chemical properties that cause paranoia and – oh, hey, Cap." Tony's rounding a corner, looking alternately guilty and thrilled. His eyes are suspiciously red, and he's got – well, he's got what appears to be three variations of marijuana clutched triumphantly in one hand.

"Tony," Steve greets colorlessly. "Are you giving Bruce illegal substances?"

"Of course not," Bruce interjects. He has begun opening and shutting the refrigerator door. The motion blows cool air over his forehead, stirs his hair; it's probably soothing or something. "It's medicinal."

"He has a prescription," Tony supplies simply.

"Ah," Steve murmurs, smiling perfunctorily. It's not really a smile at all. It's actually kind of a flat grimace. "And I suppose you have one, too?"

"Nah," Tony grins. "Don't need one. I'm his dealer."

"Pharmacy." Bruce has wandered over to where they're standing, pleased with himself, and yeah – he's definitely naked. Some part of Steve is impressed. A very small, very distant part wholly removed from present circumstances. "He's my pharmacy."

"Right," Steve sighs. Tony starts giggling, and then Bruce does, and Steve doesn't know whether to be irritated, appalled, or – to ask if they'd be willing to share.

Not that it would work on him. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'd get a five minute high.

"So what can I do you for you, Steve?" Tony asks, and he's standing close enough that the super-charged green smell of the drugs and his own personal scent (expensive shampoo, clean sweat, the faintest edge of motor oil) all twist together into something that should not be so alluring, shouldn't drag Steve right back to that night. Shouldn't make him want, but does.

"I was just stopping by," he says, aiming for nonchalant but coming over clipped. "There's not, ah... that is..."

"Oh," Tony says, his expression shifting from bemused inquiry to a strange depth of understanding. "You want to hang out with us? We were thinking of watching a movie."

So this is how Steve ends up watching _The Road to El Dorado_ with a stoned genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist and a naked-except-for-his-glasses physicist who, surprisingly, doesn't appear to be in danger of hulking out.

"Tony," Steve says partway through the movie, after Bruce has apparently fallen asleep. His glasses are crooked on his face, and he's curled up at the end of the squashy couch, half over the arm, like a cat.

"Mm? What?" Tony murmurs, shifting close. He's sort of migrated into Steve's space, leaning into him during _The Trail We Blaze_ (which he was singing along to) and then bonelessly resting his chin on Steve's broad shoulder when they're all distracted by the natives onscreen. They've cornered Miguel and Tulio, pinned them up against an ancient stone cut with their likeness.

"While I agree that this seems to be helping the overall – complications – associated with Bruce's condition," he begins, and Tony snorts. Steve glowers. "I just don't think it's right to keep him drugged up."

"Well, no," Tony's breathing on his neck now, warm and a bit wet. He leans closer, steadies himself with a hand on Steve's thigh, and continues. Or, at least, Steve is sure he is – but he can't pick out the words over the sensation of the lips forming them, electric and a bit chapped against the vulnerable flesh of his throat.

So Tony is half in Steve's lap, touching him, kissing him just below his ear (for all practical purposes) and Steve has his eyes narrowed from the effort of keeping his hands to his own damn self, when Pepper walks in.

* * *

The thing about Pepper is that she lives here, too. She's just got her hands full running Stark Industries mostly by herself, and Steve tries to jump away like he's been burned – except that Tony is gripping him tightly, holding him in place, keeping a lid on any sudden movements. The look in his eyes is stone cold sober. Even if they are a bit red.

Once upon a time, Steve was caught up in something that wasn't exactly what it looked like. He'd empathize with Tony if he didn't feel so much like a hot-to-trot secretary on this end of things.

"How was the meeting?" Tony calls over to her, big brilliant smile on his face, and he pushes himself gracelessly off the couch. His hand trails affectionately through Bruce's hair – Bruce doesn't stir, just sort of snores in acknowledgement – before he gets an arm around Pepper's thin waist and kisses her languidly.

"I like that you ask me a question," she murmurs, eyes bright, "and then prevent me from answering."

Tony smiles wider. Pepper raises one perfect eyebrow. "I see we've been partaking again."

"It's pharmacy," Bruce says from the couch. Bruce, who is sloppy lazy and yawning. Steve feels incredibly out of place, a kink in the dynamics of their made family. Displaced, and the feeling twists horribly in his guts, in his chest, because he has nowhere to go that isn't alone, or someone else's space.

He remembers what Loki had said, months ago. A man out of time. He rolls it around, tastes it in every context. The part of him that wishes, very badly, to leave is the same part of him that wants to stay.

"What he said," Tony adds, and Pepper pushes him away playfully. Then she looks at Steve.

"Hi," she says. Her hair glinting red in the light, her freckles faint beneath her makeup, her crisp white shirt and the narrow flare of her hips beneath a black pencil skirt. She's breathtaking.

"Hi," he greets, standing out of old habit, that too-big feeling settling like a weight on his shoulders all over again. In the background, _Friends Never Say Goodbye_ is playing. He wishes it were _It's Tough to Be a God_. Tony'd sang along to that, had made jokes about Thor and alcohol and hangovers.

"Are you staying for dinner?" She asks, like every day she walks in on Tony trying to sneak in make-outs with his male superhero friends.

"Um," Steve tries, and then smiles the goofy, nervous smile he gets around pretty women. "No, Miss Potts, I was actually on my way out."

"I can see that," she says, glancing at her – her _fiance_, who slept with Steve seven weeks ago, who is yawning and shuffling toward the kitchen in wrinkled pajamas and is everything Steve wants in the world. Still legitimately high, apparently, now that his momentary panic has abated. "But really, you're already here and Tony likes ordering from a minimum of three take-out restaurants at a time. Unless you've got plans?"

Steve doesn't. Tony knows he doesn't, Pepper probably assumes, and when is he going to make any friends in this new, horrible life? Inwardly, he sighs. Outwardly, he smiles.

Thinks about Tony making puppy eyes at Pepper all night over dinner.

"Perhaps next time," he says, bowing his head. "I'm not really hungry."

"You're always hungry," Tony says loudly from where he's poking around in the panty. "And we won't have food for another hour anyway."

Bruce stirs on the couch. Then he gets up.

If Pepper is at all surprised or appalled at his appearance, she reveals nothing. "Hi, Bruce."

"Hi, Pepper," he smiles. Then he frowns. "Did you know? It seems it is possible for me to lose track of my clothing. Not just the – other guy. It's fascinating. I'm still trying to internalize the full spectrum of practical application."

"Bruce," Pepper laughs, tilting her head, "to which blend were you subjected today?"

"My dear," Bruce replies, before wandering off (ostensibly to put some pants on, jeez louise), "that is outside the realms of this conversation."

"Gotta pee, be right back," Tony says blandly, and follows Bruce down the hall.

So Steve is left alone with Pepper.

"So how long have they been," he tries, gesturing uselessly in an attempt to cover _smoking marijuana_ and, apparently, _growing illegal drugs for admittedly medicinal purposes, except for Tony, who seems to enjoy testing out his own hallucinogens_.

"Oh – sorry, Steve. He was trying to keep it from you."

"What?" Steve asks blankly, brow furrowed.

"He knows you don't approve of that sort of thing, but he also thought it could really help Bruce out. They've basically been smoking weed and doing yoga for the last month."

A hot flashback, unbidden, rises to the forefront of his mind: Tony laid out against red sheets, legs hitched over Steve's shoulders, bent in half and hoarse from filthy talk and low, harsh moans. The smell of his skin and the way his hair curled with perspiration. The sting of his nails along Steve's back and biceps, and the perfect heat as Steve bottomed out inside of him.

Uncomfortably, Steve thinks that Tony is flexible enough as is.

Then he experiences the utter shame of fantasizing over a man whose _soon-to-be-wife_ is _standing in front of him_. Conversing with him. He feels every imaginable flavor of self-disgust. It isn't something that suits him in any capacity. It isn't something he would ever be okay with.

Tony gets back and hands Pepper three menus with requests circled in blue pen. "The samosas are for Bruce," he explains, then gives Steve a quick look. "I've got – barbecue wings? Does that sound good to you?"

"Sure," Steve says. And then, remembering, "Except I'm not staying, really, but thanks."

"Or we can get hamburgers. Steak. Um. Meatloaf? Pot roast? I'm sure we can get a pot roast delivered, or turkey or something." He glances hurriedly at Pepper and hisses, in what he must creatively imagine to be a subtle whisper but is in fact quite loud, "What did they eat in the forties?"

"Tony!" Pepper half laughs, shaking her head.

Tony smiles crookedly back at her. "When they could afford it, then. Did you see this guy's 'before' pictures?"

"Tony," Pepper says, "It is painful to me that I am continually filling in your knowledge base with general miscellanea that everyone should know by the time they are twelve. Such as: It was not Thanksgiving everyday in the nineteen-forties, and 'traditional American cuisine' roughly equates to 'whatever the immigrants ate in the old country and could roughly approximate here.' Also – and I'll throw these in free of charge – Steve's parents were Irish. And trying to make a man comfortable by feeding him familiar foods will not offset the body issues he will develop if you continually bring up his physical inadequacies."

"Ah," Tony says, chagrined. He reaches up to touch Steve's shoulder, except then his palm brushes against Steve's neck, like an apology. And he's stepping closer. And – Pepper's _right there_, what the _actual heck_ –

But Pepper just snorts. "Imagine living with him like this weeks," she says, smiling slightly, and Steve can. It makes his heart clench. "Overly affectionate and concerned about people's feelings. And, as usual, getting everything wrong."

"I resent that," Tony murmurs placidly, his hand falling away as he turns back to his _fiancee_, his _girlfriend who lives with him who is also going to be his wife_.

"Steve's a big boy," Pepper says, pushing the menu gently into his hand. "He can circle his own dinner." Then she smiles brightly, and Steve gets to learn the exact emotional nuance of deep, eternal gratitude swirled together with the intense guilt that comes from _sleeping with the domestic partner of the woman who has done you a kindness_. By rescuing you from her boyfriend. That you've slept with. Steve basically feels terrible forever. It doesn't go away.

"And the next time he tries to crawl into your lap," she adds, and Steve's heart stutters painfully against his ribcage, "just shove him off until he gets the hint."

"Sometimes it takes a few tries to stick," Bruce adds, reappearing and (thankfully) dressed in plaid flannel pants and a long-sleeved Iron Man t-shirt.

"I'll keep that in mind," he tells them evenly, pulse racing, throat tight.

He glances down at the menus. He circles some things.

* * *

The movie's just about over: the ship is capsizing and spilling all that gold into clear, covered waters, irrecoverable as smoke or childhood or the perfect pieces of your own fractured past. Bruce has wandered off somewhere again. Pepper's probably changing out of her work clothes or something, and Tony is sprawled on the opposite end of the couch from Steve, eyes fixed on the screen.

They're alone together, for now, which is something Steve traitorously aches for. But there is a healthy, reasonable, appropriate amount of space separating them, which is a solid relief.

He's turning this paradox over in his mind when the doorbell rings.

"JARVIS," Tony says. He sounds cranky. "Food. Pay them or something."

"I'm sorry, sir," the AI says with mild reproach, "but it is not Lombardi's, McSorley's, or Shawarma. In fact, it isn't any food you have ordered at all."

Distantly, there is the faint, tinny sound of rain against the rooftop. It starts out light, almost soothing, but gradually picks up. Steve hadn't realized it was going to storm tonight.

"Then who is it," Tony snaps, brows furrowed together, and JARVIS makes a sound that would probably be a long-suffering sigh if he – _it_, Steve corrects, not _he_ – were a human and not a conglomeration of metal and electricity.

"Miss Romanov, sir."

There's general silence, and finally Pepper says from the hallway, "Let her in, of course, JARVIS." She's towelling her hair dry when she walks into the living room, and she's wearing a red and gold bathrobe belted at the waist. It's obviously not hers, overly large and loose on her small frame.

"I didn't authorize that!" Tony mutters.

JARVIS can, apparently, choose not to hear his ultimate creator and master. "Yes, Miss Potts."

When Natasha comes into the living room, she's in her SHIELD blacks. Her hair is messy, hastily tied back, and there's mud on her scuffed face. She looks filthy, overworked, sore. She looks tired, like she hasn't slept or bathed in days.

She's also bleeding from various small cuts, and one alarming patch of darkness high on her rib cage that she's pressing against with a crimson towel. It was probably some incarnation of white at some point.

"Thor is back," she says without preamble. The sound of the rain is undercut by a heavy burst of thunder. "He has brought Loki with him."


	2. Chapter 2

"Great, that's really phenomenal news and I can't wait to see those guys." Tony says, taking a few steps in Natasha's direction. "I'm glad that Thor is recovered from his nasty scrape with flesh-rending metal and that he's bringing his special snowflake nutjob brother home with him. Now that's out of the way – can we get to the part where _what the hell happened to you_?"

"It's nice to know you give a shit," Natasha replies dryly, and Steve purses his lips. Then he walks purposefully over to her, settles his hand on her small shoulder. "Come on," he says. "You need medical attention. I can't believe you came here first, actually."

Expressionless, Natasha shrugs. "You needed to be informed. I was in the area."

"You could've made a phone call," Tony says, irritated. "From a hospital. You could've made Clint call us."

A shadow passes over her face, then, but Tony fails to notice.

"Speaking of, where is that guy? Aren't you two, like, joined at the hip?"

"Tony," Steve warns, and Pepper chooses this juncture to take matters into her own capable hands.

"Miss Romanov," she says, her hair a damp tangle around her shoulders as she approaches them. Steve can smell her flowery shampoo; her cheeks are still pink from her shower. "Let me introduce you to a first aid kit and a change of clothes."

Natasha doesn't smile – it would be unusual and a bit frightening if she did – but she does nod brusquely, accepts the steady support Pepper offers. "I'm not sure I'd fit into anything of yours. You're thinner and taller."

Pepper smiles enough for the two of them, though there is genuine concern in her eyes. The agent's honestly sounding pretty rough. "Not by much. Come on, I'm sure we'll find you something."

"You've got about twenty minutes," Natasha says, glancing up at Steve. She must be in pain if she's letting her exhaustion show, and Steve worries about her; he worries about everyone in the group, except perhaps Bruce. Bruce is someone you don't need to look after so much as watch out for. "Fury will be calling to debrief."

"Will Thor be traveling by his, ah, usual methods?" Tony asks, leaning against the back of the couch. He's got his arms crossed, and Steve's eyes catch on the edges of his elbows, the curl of his strong, calloused hands; the faint blue glow beneath his gray t-shirt. A constant reminder of his frailty and strength. It twists something deep inside of Steve every time he thinks about it, though its existence has become second nature to his own.

"They're actually down the street," Natasha says, and she limps as Pepper helps her from the room, doesn't even try to hide it. "They stopped for Starbucks."

* * *

Fury does call – but he calls Steve's cell, not the house, because apparently SHIELD seems to know where he is at all times. This is not a comforting piece of knowledge, but – he's sort of the leader, he supposes, though he's just a strong personality among other strong personalities. His is just structured, organized, group-oriented; everyone else is the insane kind of brilliant or the exact opposite of a team player.

Steve is not keen on examining their group dynamics, because somewhere in his heart of hearts he doesn't fundamentally believe they work; like if he looks to close, if he has to face the proof of their dysfunction, everything will deteriorate.

So his cell rings while he's leaning against the breakfast bar in the open kitchen, a very severe-looking headshot of Nick Fury popping up. Tony, who has been rifling through the mail with intense disinterest, has to help him answer.

"Still, Cap? Really?" He tsks, his hands fluid over the touchscreen. He's standing in some halfway world between desperately close to Steve and far too distant from him. Irrational and irreconcilable and dangerously distracting. "What was the point of all those tech tutoring sessions? I despair of you."

"Maybe you're just an awful teacher," he says without heat. "Also, shut up."

"Excuse me?" Fury snaps, and Steve spends the next few minutes apologizing and trying to explain about the whole stupid phone-answering thing.

Fury makes an extraordinarily nonplussed sound. "I don't care, Rogers. I'm going to assume Natasha made it?"

"Yes, sir. She's not in the best shape," he mentions, and Fury sighs like a hiss through his teeth. It sounds frustrated, which is how Fury shows concern.

"I'm sure you'll take care of her. It is apparently beyond my capabilities to keep my _trained assassins_ in the hospital."

Well, hell, of course he couldn't. "What happened?" Steve glances at Tony, who is near enough to hear both sides of the conversation. His first impulse is to push him away, maybe have some privacy, but – he doesn't. He probably can't. It's probably beyond him, now, at this stage in the game. Just another thing beyond his control, the way Tony weasels into his personal space until he puts down roots, makes it so no power on earth can detach him from you. Metaphorically speaking.

The fact of the matter is, Steve can't stop thinking about him on a good day, and on a bad day he has the scent of Tony's sweat, recalls it perfectly, can't block it out.

"Standard mission, and none of your damn business." Fury growls.

"So Loki – "

" – is with Thor, and currently a non-threat. Natasha just happened to be closest to your location when I received intel from Jane Foster."

Steve thinks of Natasha playing messenger. It doesn't take.

"So what's the situation, sir?" Steve asks point-blank. "What are we going to do about this?"

There's another long-suffering noise on the line, and kind of back-of-the-throat grunt of irritation. "Thor is an asset to us. As for his brother – I'd love nothing better than having him drawn and quartered for what he did to Coulson. And I want to watch that fucker burn for New York."

"I don't think Thor would appreciate that."

"No," Fury agrees. "But I do not have any confidence whatsoever in the Asgardian justice system if a _war criminal_ is allowed to _walk free after two months_."

"To be fair," Steve says reasonably, "he's got a hell of a parole officer."

This is about when Tony eases his hand into Steve's back pocket, nudges their hips together. Pins Steve casually against the counter.

A warm heat flares up his back, coils low in his belly, and his eyes catch on the – the heavy _want_ in Tony's eyes, the way his dark lashes stand out against his cheeks.

There's a bark of laughter on the line. Steve, speechless and breathless and slowly recovering, does his best to find his voice, to focus on the task at hand.

"Well, have JARVIS set up a video conference when he gets there." Fury says.

"Not his AI," Tony murmurs against Steve's ear. "My AI. Don't know where he gets off bossing around my friends."

Steve raises his eyebrows expressively, trying to convey the simple message of Please shut up, please, I can't handle you like this, or at all in any capacity, and this is the truth, Tony.

"Property. I most definitely said property, because who is friends with robots? Not me," he babbles, and presses the lightest of kisses against Steve's collar bone.

"Of course," Steve says, hearing the phone creak slightly from the tightness of his fingers. He forces himself to relax, to maybe not destroy everything he touches when he freaks out a little bit.

"I expect to hear from you shortly, Captain."

Once Fury's off the phone, Tony's on Steve like a goddamn tiger, shoving him up against the refrigerator with a loud thud, and it's all Steve can do to grab his shoulders, forcibly push him back.

"What," he hisses, low and serious, "are you _doing_, christ, I need you to," and he's going to finish this sentence with Stop, or possibly, Back the hell off, Stark.

But Tony gets there first, and he says, "Me, too."

And then he drags Steve by the wrist, out of the living room, down two sets of stairs and into a small bedroom just off his lab.

Steve follows, probably, because it's not something he has a choice in. It's just something his body does.

So – Tony's twin-sized bed, hardly big enough for one grown adult. It's basically a cot. It's where Tony passes out after about thirty-seven hours of work, where he goes with things he doesn't have any say in, like how people have to sleep sometimes.

He's on his back before he realizes it, pressed into a sheets and pillows that still smells like Tony, and Tony's already popped open his slacks, is kneading his hands over Steve's belly and hips. Dragging his wet lips over the fine trail of hair, and there's a point where Steve thinks, Crap, we're going to break this bed. It's going to happen.

It's this thought that derails him, makes him pull Tony up by the hair – he hadn't even noticed he's slid his fingers into that mess, jesus – but then Tony's kissing him.

It's not hot and filthy, it's not fast. It's not feverish like his hands on Steve's chest and shoulders, untucking his plaid button-down, burrowing beneath his undershirt. It's not greedy like the insistent press of his erection, through their layers of clothing, against Steve's hip.

Instead: it's slow, sweet. Tony takes his time, tugs gently at a lower lip, fits his teeth against Steve's jaw and drags his mouth up to his ear.

"Tony," Steve gasps. "Please, we need to talk about this, I," but Tony makes a low sound in his throat.

"I don't want to talk. I just want," Tony sighs, makes a small noise. He's almost pleading. He's almost begging.

"But," Steve inhales sharply, Tony's tongue hot on his throat, now. "But what about," and then there's a hand in his pants, rough and dextrous fingers wrapping around his cock, and finally Steve forces out in a rush of air: "Pepper, jesus, what about _Pepper_."

It's the magic word. Tony freezes.

But he doesn't back up. He doesn't let go of Steve, in fact he smooths the pad of his thumb nervously around the head of Steve's dick, skating through the precum, and it's – not helping Steve's mental faculties. He can't restrain the quiet moan.

Tony looks at him, meets his eyes. He looks completely bowled over, mouth swollen, eyes hooded with blind, stupid desire. So guilty and young-looking that Steve goes weak. And Tony looks at him like he's the only thing he wants on the entire planet.

Steve wonders when he became a goddamn fantasy. And he wonders if this will be his whole life, people wanting him for sex and not – never anything else.

He never thought he'd want to be small and frail again, all heart and no muscle. He never thought he'd regret what he's become, the lives he's saved. But if it meant – if he could've stayed in his own time, if he hadn't fucking _gone into stasis_, if he'd just. Stayed the same.

But then he'd never have met Tony at all, or any of the others. Even now, he can't bring himself to believe the benefits of never meeting them outweigh the vast, incalculable loss.

"Are we really going to have this conversation now?" Tony asks wretchedly, "With my hand down your pants?"

Steve's done. He's done with this irrational, unwieldy desire for Tony Stark. He's done with trying to be a part of a society where people think it's okay to be engaged to an amazing woman and then screw around on the side, where it's not actively condemned.

Mostly, he's tired of seeing Tony all the goddamn time. If they were friends – if he could just nurse his guilt and longing, with no hope or dread of more to come – it would be fine. Technology 'lessons', where Tony shows him random crap on the internets. Routine workouts, because Tony has to know decent hand-to-hand to be Iron Man. Any excuse to hang out with Tony in his lab, hoping and fearing what could come, what never comes since that first time.

The fact of the matter is, he genuinely _likes_ Tony, and he never thought he would. He feels anchored, a part of this world, because Tony will pick at him the way he picks at Bruce, the way he teases Thor and flirts with/worries over Natasha. He _includes_ people. One of the biggest deceptions about Tony is that he puts up a perfect front of apathy, of sarcastic nonchalance, when really he cares so much that it's – debilitating. Dangerous. Foolish.

And when he really likes you, he's a giant prick that makes up tasteless nicknames, rides your ass about everything he can think of, and you're halfway to hating him before you realize he's trying to be your friend.

It's so much easier when Tony keeps his preferential treatment (and his hands) to himself. When Steve can pine privately, can think Tony only wanted him that once. When everything else but strictly platonic friendship would be off the table so Steve can just get on with his life.

The thing about playing a losing game is you can't be disappointed.

He reaches down and closes his fingers around Tony's wrist, jerks the hand out of his jeans. Flips them over so Tony's pinned for one brief, gorgeous second. Then he straightens, loses all contact, zips himself up.

"Steve – "

"Tell me what the hell we're doing," Steve says, a naked command, and Tony doesn't respond well to orders. But this is better: stubbornness, anger. These are things Steve can manage. It's the raw lust that undoes him, the mussed hair and the hazy bedroom eyes that lay him bare.

"You know what, Cap? You can fuck off. It's the twenty-first century. 'Fuck' is the new 'hell'. Get with the program."

Steve glowers down at him. "I don't care," he bites out.

Tony, furious, knuckles white and twisted up in the sheets, stares daggers at him. But after awhile, he just sort of – of watches Steve, his expression shifting, growing contemplative, and eventually he sighs and shakes his head. Scrubs his palm over his face. He says, quietly, "You do. Shit, you do."

"Tony – "

"The thing about Pepper," Tony says hastily, sitting up with his hands on his knees, "is that I really, really need her. I need her like – I can't even tell you, she's just. I love her and I need her, she's smart and she _knows_ me, and she takes care of everything, and I – "

"I don't need to hear this. I promise I don't. This is – " Steve says hurriedly, because really, what. Like this whole thing hasn't messed him up enough.

"No, you really do, I'm just – if you'd let me explain – " Tony looks panicky now, but he's interrupted a second time. By JARVIS.

"Sir, your Asgardians are here. Also your Indian and Italian delivery, but the Irish fare is still three blocks north."

"We're not done," Steve hears behind him as he flat-out _bolts_ from the room.

* * *

The mansion doesn't really have meeting rooms. Tony isn't one for corporate company unless it's a gala, and then – well, usually those were held at Stark Tower or he'd rent out some nice, pricey, suitably-impressive venue. Steve has gone to most of them.

Anyway, they end up in the dining room because the table is big, and has enough chairs for everyone. Hopefully they are sturdy enough to support gods. Thor and Loki are at the end, and – well, whatever Steve was expecting, it probably wasn't this.

Loki is pale, listless, without expression. His back is straight but his head is bowed, and Thor is sitting close enough to him to – well, to shield him. Steve knows about shields, in all their forms. He knows the exact curve of Thor's spine, how you can only protect something in the best way you know how.

Also Loki has some kind of iced drink, probably a latte, Steve doesn't know. But it is badly inconsistent with his worldview, to see a Norse god sipping Starbucks like a dejected child.

"That was a tough break with Magneto," Tony greets. "I'm glad you're – ah, over it."

Steve, because he is studiously not watching Tony, notices Loki flinch. Watches his mouth press into a thin, unhappy line, his quick eyes darting to Thor's chest, his pristine armor. Like he remembers seeing him in pieces.

Steve feels a pang of empathy, because someone as mighty and good-hearted as Thor half-destroyed by snaking, curling links of metal? Awful.

"Of course, my friend," Thor preens. "I come from strong stock. We are well-constructed on Asgard."

Loki snorts, his expression wry, and Thor beams at him.

So it's Tony and Steve and Thor and Loki, and no one is killing anyone or trying to take over the world, and Loki says,

"Stark. I am fascinated by that device in your chest. I would appreciate the opportunity to inspect it further," and Tony tilts his head, thoughtful. There is some tightness to his jaw, some raw residue of grief and fury. But presently his face clears, because he's coming to the same conclusion that Steve has.

Loki would make a far better ally than enemy.

"I don't like to take it out," he allows, "because it's basically keeping me alive. But I'd be willing to compare notes. Sparkly Asgardian magic-science and Arc reactor technology."

They're – civil, and it's okay, and Steve thinks maybe this will work.

Then Natasha walks into the room, smooth and dangerous in another of Tony's robes (because apparently he has them to spare for freshly showered women), and – she's staring at Loki with an expression that is truly terrifying. Steve doesn't know if she's going to pull her gun on him or launch across the table or what.

She actually pulls out a chair, stiffly, beside Steve. Then she sits down. And her eyes don't leave Loki's face. And her expression never changes: intense, pinning, out for blood. She's cleaned up, bandaged, and from some angles she could pass for any other lovely young lady whose naked beneath her bathrobe. But her entire demeanor is that of someone who has just stepped off the battlefield.

Tony chooses this moment to patch in Nick Fury.

"You don't even have the fucker in chains?" He explodes, possibly because he is safe somewhere that isn't _sitting beside two gods in a dining room_, once of which is _of dubious sanity_.

"No, sir," Steve speaks up before any of them can. "We did not feel it necessary."

"Loki has come to make amends," Thor booms, like the louder he talks the more sincere he'll sound. But then, Thor's always sincere. It's a particular problem of his, and if he weren't such a brute, people might take advantage.

But you get to wear your heart on your sleeve when there is no one who can realistically beat you up.

"I like you, Thor," Clint says flatly, and Steve turns his head so fast he nearly gets whiplash. The archer's materialized from the corner, a shady spectre in black. He does not have the disheveled, roughed-up look Natasha had walked in with; rather, he's fresh-faced and tidy and has a big, white bandage wrapped around his head and covering one eye.

"Clint," Natasha says sharply, "I left you in _medical restraints_, how did you – "

"Barton," Fury says at the same time, "that was an _order_, you moronic – "

But Clint holds up a hand, cuts both of them off. He's talking to Thor, but he's looking at Loki. "You're big and you drink a lot and you're a hell of a guy to fight beside. You bullshit, which I hate, but you seem to mean it, or you don't actually know you're doing it. So I guess that's okay." He almost smiles here, almost looks fond; but then his expression hardens. "But your brother _murdered Agent Coulson_."

He radiates rage and grief, though his stocky, solid form remains unmoving. His visible eye is piercing, furious; he studies Loki like he's stringing an arrow.

"I take full responsibility for his future actions," Thor hastily promises. He looks worried and, also, a bit aggrieved himself. "As to his past transgressions, he can only work toward repentance. He can only hope to one day earn your forgiveness."

"I will _never_ forgive that." Clint says, and Natasha is watching him like she wants to get up, go to him, provide some kind of conversational backup. Or just get in his space, silent reassurance, as is her wont.

But Clint concerns Steve, too. He can't begin to fathom how it must be to look someone in the eye after he's – rummaged around in your mind, picked and chosen and rearranged. After he's defiled every special piece of the self you've constructed over all your life.

Clint doesn't even blink.

"As ever, the decision is ultimately Steve's," he says in flat, acid tones.

"With the _careful consideration _of everyone else who'd sooner gut your brother than work with him," Fury adds.

Steve watches Loki silently, the somber cast to his face, the tired angle of his shoulder. The way he's shifting slightly toward his brother and not making eye contact with anybody.

"Don't forget the part where he tore up New York City," Stark throws out, leaning lazily back in his chair with his feet up on the table.

"And what he did to Clint," Natasha murmurs with icy menace, but the archer has made his way over behind her chair, has leaned in a bit. Touches her shoulder. She doesn't quite lean back into his touch, but their intimacy crosses distance and contact like nothing Steve has ever seen.

"We've covered that, 'Tash," He says quietly.

"We have not," she hisses, shooting him a glare, and Tony looks like he's about to add something, except – Pepper comes into the room, and he stops. Tracks her movements, looks apprehensive in way that translates to Steve as Tony actually being worried for her safety, worried about this Loki situation more than he's said.

But Pepper's arms are full of delivery food, and she looks bemused, like she's wondering how she got roped into answering the door.

"Sorry it took so long, guys," she says, setting everything on the table. "The delivery guys took awhile bringing everything inside, and then McSorely's couldn't pull onto the driveway because it was blocked." She purses her lips. "Also, I don't know who you had to threaten, Tony, but these places don't actually offer a delivery service."

"It's okay," Tony says, smiling at her. "I always tip them."

"I am never answering the door for you again when you order in," she says primly. "It's shameful. The McSorely's driver was in a minivan. I think he was the owner."

While they bicker lightly about Tony's vile getting-whatever-he-wants-because-hell-he-can-damn-well-afford-it-can't-he? methods, and then with Pepper dropping a sweet kiss on the top of his head, Steve looks for something, _any_thing else to focus on, because he has to. So he watches Thor silently, takes his measure: apprehensive, but resolute. Good, kind, and loyal – to a liar and a thief. A barrier between Loki and the rest of them, his protector and also his captor.

With a faint, sad heat in his chest, Steve wonders if Thor has ever given up on anyone in his entire life. If it's something he's capable of, choosing not to forgive. If it's an idea he's entertained even once.

Suddenly, if there is anything in the world Steve is sure of, it's Thor.

"I vote yes," he says. "Thor doesn't think Loki is beyond redemption. I trust Thor."

"I'd like to hear what Loki has to say about this, myself, Cap," Tony says, and thank god Pepper has left the room. Tony's arms are behind his head and his eyes locked on the tall, lanky figure across from all of them, half-hidden behind the bulk of his brother.

"Where's Banner?" Fury asks suddenly, casting his single eye around wildly.

"Asleep," Steve says.

"At six-thirty?"

"There were extenuating circumstances," Tony says sheepishly. "JARVIS, could you politely wake our dear friend Brucey-Bruce and tell him to meet us in the dining room?"

"It would be my pleasure, sir, but he's already on his way down."

They turn as one to the doorway, even Loki, expectant. Sure enough, Bruce shambles in lazily, stretching and scratching his belly, glasses slightly crooked and hair ruffled from sleep.

"Dinner," he says happily, and plops down _right next to Loki._

Loki doesn't move, doesn't shrink away, but he goes so still that he may as well have. His pupils are pinpoints and his lips are white, and Bruce starts ruffling through the plastic Shawarma bag.

"Oh," he says after a minute of silence where everyone is staring at him. "Is it not that time yet?"

Tony cracks first, smiling ear to ear, and then he starts dividing up the food. Steve does not fail to notice how he pushes most of the Irish food to his side of the table.

So they all start to eat, Thor tearing into a huge bowl of pasta ideally meant for six people while Loki picks at breadsticks, some potato soup Steve has offered him, and a falafel sandwich.

"I have better things to do," Fury says loudly, "than watch you brats stuff your faces."

"We're getting to it, sir," Steve assures him, digging into his pot pie. It's almost, but not quite, exactly unlike the one his mother used to make. Saying she was a cook is very much like saying a finger painting is Michelangelo's David. They both technically fall into the broad universe of artistic expression, but they're – entirely different lifeforms on entirely different planets. What they have in common is basically that they both exist.

So really, Steve is very happy with his meal.

Once Tony has filled Bruce in on the circumstances – they speak in some weird science shorthand they've obviously developed in high-stress lab conditions while smoking pot and practicing yoga – and after Bruce has had one and a half shawarma wraps, he says, "Well, I have no problem if Loki stays with us."

Loki glances at him questioningly. Bruce smiles, and it – it really isn't a nice smile. It's rather nasty. Steve is alarmed, hadn't thought Bruce had it in him.

"The other guy doesn't mind either."

Loki blanches, Thor winces, and Natasha tears into her baba ganouj with vigor and pita bread, evidently pleased or disinterested – it's hard to tell which, she wears them the same way – at the proceedings. Clint remains standing, his eyes cold over a tin of hot lasagna.

"If you would like to speak, Loki," Steve says, glancing over at him, meeting his eyes, "now would be the time to do so."

Loki swallows the mouthful of soup he'd been savoring, wipes neatly at his mouth even though he is not at all a messy eater. He glances at Thor for – assurance? Support? Something. And he seems to get it.

"All right." He raises his eyes, looks at them each in turn. "I will not apologize. An apology would not be worth anything to any of you," he begins. Fury snorts, a hard, staticy sound (because SHIELD's tech is trash, if you'd believe Tony, who Steve often takes with a grain of salt, or a barrel) that is probably terse agreement. Clint is watching him sharply, a tiny bit of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth, and Natasha is watching Clint.

Bruce is inhaling his food, projecting calm and worldly acceptance.

Tony is looking at a spot on the ceiling.

"But I will tell you – I make a terrible enemy. Not that it would be impossible for you to defeat me a second time," he says, looking pinched and miserable and, for once, honest, "but I do not think it worth the trouble when I could be – of use to you. My considerable power to do with as you will."

"Why?" Tony asks bluntly, which is exactly what Steve is thinking. "This can't be about redemption. You don't regret those _lives_ you took, the _damage_ you've done. You don't regret killing Agent Coulson."

"Agent Coulson aimed a very large gun at me," Loki says coldly. "He later shot me with me."

"It was battle," Thor says uncomfortably, "not murder." He looks extraordinarily unhappy, as though his brother has gotten him to tell lies on his behalf. It's probably something that happened a lot when they were kids. It's something that would not surprise Steve, if it were true.

"He was our friend," Clint says.

Loki looks at him, brow furrowed for a moment. "I know he was. Barton, what has happened to you that you are now blinded?"

"Shut _up_." Clint says, slamming his fork on the table. "And it's only the one eye."

"But I know you," Loki says simply, and there are worlds of meaning in that one word: _know_. He sounds resigned, almost sad; he doesn't sound cruel. "Without both eyes, you are no longer a perfect shot."

"Loki," Thor says quietly, but 'quiet' for Thor is 'not shouting', "I do not think it wise to – "

"Natasha," Steve shouts, but Clint has already shoved her back down into her seat, hands heavy on her shoulders.

"Can we finish this story," Bruce says, licking his fingers clean. "My buzz is wearing off. This conversation will have the potential to... upset me. Sooner rather than later, I think."

"Tell us why you want to – to be an Avenger and protect Earth with us. The Earth you meant to destroy. Tell us why you want to redeem yourself," Steve says, and Loki looks at him. There is no trace of the megalomanical Hitleresque beast he'd confronted during their last battle. Just intellect, aimless and – withdrawn. Without passion or direction.

"Thor fights for you," he murmurs. "I am tired of fighting Thor. I – would rather fight beside him. Wherever he chooses to go. Whatever cause he may support." He doesn't look at his brother, doesn't look at anyone. "I find I no longer have the stomach for – for this game of chase, for hunting each other through all the realms. I would rather have done. I would rather remain by his side."

Beside him, Thor stills; stares openly at Loki like he has never heard these words from his brother, never heard even an approximation. Like they're everything he's ever wanted to hear in this life.

"That's," Steve begins, because – that's exactly how he felt, once, though to a much lesser degree. He understands. Implictly.

"I'm okay with that," Tony says slowly. He's looking at Steve for the first time since they started eating. "Even after he threw me out a window – my _own_ window – I'm still okay with that."

"And about your eye, Barton." Loki adds quietly. "I just – I mean to say that I can repair it."

"I've heard enough," Fury growls, and disconnects. Steve takes this to mean he will begin processing the paperwork.


	3. Chapter 3

"You can stay," Tony is saying later, after Thor and Loki have retired to one of the master bedrooms and Clint has gone to shoot arrows until his knuckles blister and bleed. Steve hovers in the doorway with his leather jacket over one arm, his motorcycle helmet in the crook of his elbow. He doesn't want to stay. He wants his bike, he wants the rush of the night air on his face. Because some things never change.

"Everyone else is staying over tonight anyway," Tony adds, moving closer, and damned if Steve doesn't feel – _crowded_ by the smaller man, _pursued_. Trapped, as ridiculous as the concept seems.

" – and I'll be putting our Norse friends up for the next few weeks until Stark Tower's back online, so you – "

"'Online'? Don't you mean – rebuilt?" Steve asks warily, fairly certain by now of what is technology and what, well, isn't.

"Yeah, that too," Tony allows. "But it's basically a big giant building-shaped super computer, so."

"Ah," Steve says, at a loss. He wonders if he can just open the door the rest of the way and leave. If he can just walk out of this conversation. He gets a hand on the latch. "So you guys are moving there?"

Tony gives him a funny look, head tilted. "Um. Yes. We all are."

Before Steve can turn this over in his head, Tony reaches out and takes Steve's helmet. Then he takes his hand. "About earlier," he starts.

"It's fine," Steve says, tugging his fingers free, but Tony tightens his grip.

"It's not," he says sharply. "Steve, it's really not."

"I don't want – "

"I don't give a shit," Tony says flatly. "So you can either stay here tonight, or I'm coming home with you. Because I'm not going to sit in my lab for the next three days agonizing over a fucking miscommunication with fucking Captain America."

"Tony – " Steve insists, but it's like arguing with the weather. Or a nuclear warhead. Tony's an impossible force of nature, a volatile machine, and they end up outside near Steve's motorcycle with Tony's fingers hooked into the belt loops of Steve's jeans.

"It's going to be pretty hard to avoid me when we're all living happily together as superheroes in our superhero penthouse suite," he mutters.

Steve goes still. "You mean – you and Bruce and Pepper? And Thor and Loki?"

"And Clint," Tony says firmly, voice even and long-suffering, "and Natasha." He's looking at Steve, annoyance and unhappiness and – and something else, some crazy mixture of Tony-feelings, as plainly displayed as they are incomprehensible. It's probably because he spends all of his time with robots, Steve thinks wildly. It addles the mind.

There's still a smudge of oil on his cheek, near his nose. His arc reactor glows through two layers of clothing, a t-shirt over a long-sleeved undershirt, and. Steve's mouth goes dry. He turns his body in just that little bit, opens himself up. Lets Tony into his space. He doesn't have a choice; it isn't a thing he can resist.

"And you, Cap," Tony is saying quietly.

"And – what?" Steve asks, dazed and maybe a little dumb. Tony's so close, the smell of him twisting together with breezy warmth from this late summer evening.

"Top ten floors. Avengers-land. Also Hulk-proof. Mostly."

"Tony," Steve says desperately, "I – "

"And a fantastic gym. Really, Steve, you'll love it, lots of things for you to try and break."

"I have an apartment. I'm not – I don't need to," he tries.

"Oh, but you do," Tony says. Does this weird Tony-thing where he insinuates himself against Steve's motorcycle, a hot cage, all-encompassing and pinning Steve in. "I think it's something we all need. You're – "

"Christ, could you _back the hell off_," Steve snarls. "I can't believe you're so shameless that you – you want to just _move me in_ next to you and your – "

It's about when Tony grabs his forearms that he realizes he's been gesturing violently.

"Shh," Tony says soothingly. "Look." he takes his time, a deep breath. Exhales. Looks unhappy, has that expression he gets when he's trying very hard to make himself understood, but is quickly losing the vast patience required to do so.

He lets go of Steve. He backs the hell off. "Bruce is a goddamn power house. He's our ace in the hole, and we need to keep him close."

Steve starts to say something to this statement, which by the way is _completely out of the blue_, and also irrelevant, but Tony holds up a hand. "But he is also a fucking _human being_, and he needs to be reminded of that. He can't live his whole life terrified of hurting everyone else. He can't live his life _wishing he were dead_. Bruce is a fucking suicide, Steve. He pulled the fucking trigger." He sighs, the air harsh out of his lungs. "It just didn't take."

Steve swallows, a hot, tight heat rising in his chest. He hadn't – thought of it like that. And he's taken completely off-guard, once again, by how this asshole is such a goddamn saint. It blindsides you. He picks at you and irritates you and hurls every scathing piece of truth he has on you if he thinks you don't like him, if he's protecting himself. He's self-absorbed, difficult to get to know, almost impossible to work with. But then you find out he always thinking about crap like this.

"Clint and Natasha are SHIELD agents, assassins. Home, for them, is a little box at HQ with a standing shower and a twin-sized bed. Home is living out of motels and – and fucking helicarriers. They're a part our little Avengers family. They get to live with us, too."

There's something to the way Tony says 'family' – intentionally nonchalant, careless. But it reminds Steve of something, makes his chest seize up the same way _Bruce is a fucking suicide_ had.

"And – Thor and Loki have nowhere else to go. I don't think Jane could comfortably accommodate two Norse gods." Tony's lip twists. "I'd sooner move her here with us, it'd be great to have another scientist in the lab, but her research's in New Mexico anyway and I – "

"_Tony_," Steve says, because you can't get a word in edgewise with this guy. "What if this doesn't _work_? What if we all move in together and _hate_ each other by the end of it? People need room to breathe."

What he means is: I live on the other side of the city and I still make excuses to stop by and see you. I do it every day. How can I bear living under the same roof with you? What is this going to do to me?

"There will be so much space," Tony says hastily. "Floors and floors of space. Huge apartments just full of space. Private bathrooms, all with lots and lots of space. The kitchen is communal but you can always order in if you feel like a hermit, and did I mention the _enormous _and _catastrophically hi-tech_ health and wellness facility? It's seriously going to be the best gym on the planet."

Steve sighs. Thinks about sitting alone for hours in his small bedroom, lost. Steady, unabating depression closing in around him like an isolation chamber.

When you feel like that, you don't _want_ to be around anyone else.

Steve thinks about Bruce, about the bullet. Steve isn't a hulk; he's just a super-soldier. Something like putting a bullet in his mouth would probably take.

"So it's not just about you," Tony says quietly, bringing Steve back to the present, to this conversation that makes his lungs burn and his stomach flip. "And I know it's difficult here. Different. I know your world's – changed a lot." He glances up, and Steve feels pinned beneath that heavy gaze, suspended. Held motionless by the sincerity of it.

But he doesn't feel trapped. Not really.

And – he'd really, really love to get in a good workout with more, ah. Durable equipment.

"Okay," Steve says. "Can I please go home now?"

Tony looks startled for a minute, eyebrows raised. "What – wait, no. We haven't talked about Pepper yet."

Steve throws a leg over his motorcycle and fishes around for his helmet. Tony picks it up off the grass, but he doesn't hand it over right away. Droplets of water from the damp lawn have pebbled over the surface, glinting in the light from the mansion.

"We just talked about moving in together." It was exhausting. Steve is exhausted. "We can talk about Pepper tomorrow. I promise."

"Fine," Tony says, passing him the helmet. Neither of them say anything while he straps it on.

Steve revs the engine. The sound is absolutely blissful.

"Hey," Tony says quietly before turning away. "Look. I'm not gonna leave you alone here, okay? You most of all."

* * *

They don't talk about Pepper the next day because random terrorists happen.

Steve has his hands full evacuating civilians, Hawkeye is perched somewhere picking off lunatics with weirdly-advanced bombs strapped to their chests before they can actually detonate, and Natasha is bloody and unconscious beneath Ironman and a pile of rubble. He'd barely gotten the suit of armor over her body before the building collapsed.

Thor and Loki are nearby, the former swinging his impossible hammer, the latter – teleporting. Steve hasn't actually seen him attack anyone yet, but several times he's tricked enemies into shooting each other. And the reason one building is down – post-evacuation, though Steve is uncomfortably certain that this was by luck, rather than design – is because Loki hung around looking menacing until three of the bombers converged on him and blew themselves up.

Loki, naturally, skipped out before so much as a fleck of blood could touch him.

However, the building did land on Natasha, mostly.

"How's Black Widow doing?" Steve shouts into the communicator, and Tony's voice is cracked and distorted. His suit must be pretty banged up.

"She's just knocked out, but I don't think she has a concussion."

"Get her over here, then."

"Not that I'm a doctor or anything," Tony adds, since he never shuts up.

There's another explosion, and a string of curses as Hawkeye drops to the ground beside Steve.

"I'll bring her back to the Manor," he says, unstringing his bow. "We're about done here, anyway."

His eyes – both of them, in perfect working order – track Loki's lean, rangy form as the trickster god stalks over to his brother, a hand on Thor's elbow as he closes his eyes, turns his head.

"What's he doing?" Hawkeye asks.

"Magic," Steve says, grateful he's not the only one in the dark about something. "Probably."

Loki's eyes split open and he says something low and sharp; Thor lifts his head, darts off around a building and reemerges moments later with two rough-looking men stacked over one shoulder. He's got their explosives casually over his arm.

Loki looks panicky; across the lot they watch him point broadly at the bombs.

Thor, sheepish, sets them on the carefully on the ground. Well, Thor's inventive interpretation of careful, which is a solid drop, and Steve is vastly relieved when the big man is still standing. God, whatever. He's still getting used to – that part of all of this. The largely secular present. Gods-as-aliens. Magic-as-super-science.

It's not as bad as he'd thought it would be.

"So this could've gone worse," Iron Man says, touching down on Steve's left. He's got Natasha's unconscious form under one arm.

"Jesus, Stark," Hawkeye mutters, reclaiming her prone form, "she's not a sack of potatoes."

"My mistake," Tony says, and he's got his helmet pushed back. "She doesn't weight much. I forgot she wasn't groceries at one point."

Clint smirks, can't seem to help it, and then carries her over to the small transport jet.

"Can you pilot that thing alone?" Steve asks, eyes catching on Clint's thick, muscular arms – how small Natasha looks in them as he settles her into the co-pilot seat, straps her in. The way his hand cups her cheek for bare seconds before he straightens, smiles cocky and sure.

"Can you find your own ride home?" He shoots back.

Steve purses his lips, but Tony gets arm arm around his waist.

"I'll return the good captain," Tony says. His face is streaked with sweat and dirt, and his suit is battered all to hell.

Hawkeye shrugs. "I'll leave you guys to it. Thor can fly, so whatever."

The wind from liftoff blasts around them, scattering dirt and debris, and Tony's still got his arm around Steve.

"I've very glad," he says solemnly, "that we left Bruce at home today."

"Oh?" Steve asks lightly. "You didn't want him throwing his muscle around, see how he'd react to random explosions?"

Tony looks pained. "My theory is that if he goes into the transformation willingly, he's better able to control it. It's when he fights it that he – well." Tony attempts a smile. It's small and turned-down at the edges. "I don't think his presence would have... tipped the battle in our favor."

Steve hums, turns his head, then realizes how close they are. He steps away, tries to make it natural, but it's obvious to both of them he's deliberately putting space between their bodies.

Tony's lip twists.

Before he can say anything, Thor approaches with Loki in tow.

"This was a fine battle, my friends!" He booms good-naturedly, and Loki is studying the unconscious figures in his brother's arms.

"Do we know where these guys came from?" Steve asks, brow furrowed. "Al-Qaeda? Muslim Brotherhood? IRA? They don't look like – they don't look Middle Eastern," he says, uncomfortable with profiling. "Or Irish, actually, though I don't have any idea why they'd be active here. Actually, they don't look," and then he stops talking.

Because the face melts off one of them. And then the body, without seeming to grow, is suddenly twice the size it was.

Loki, pale by nature, goes paper-white.

"Okay, wow," Tony says, lips a thin white line. "Chitauri can shapeshift?"

"Is this a splinter group? When you destroyed the mother ship," Steve begins, but Tony interrupts.

"America destroyed the mother ship. I merely aimed," Tony's grinning, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Steve's heart rolls over in his chest at the memory, of Tony vanishing like he'd never existed. And then: his prone form falling from the sky like some broken, biotechnical angel, plummeting to the cold, hard earth below.

It had been a defining moment in their relationship, Steve thinks. At least on his side. It hadn't changed the slow-building respect, the careful truce and eventual camaraderie that had bloomed between them. But it had made Steve realize how vital Tony had become, how indispensible. When he'd almost lost him.

Thor is saying to Loki, "Do you know of this?"

"I am afraid you will have to specify," is the blank reply, cloudy eyes fixed on the curl of a scaled elbow. "Am I aware the Chitauri can change their forms? Yes." He pauses, and his eyes flash up to his brother's. "Did I know our enemies were Chitauri? No. I did not."

Steve steps closer to Loki, touches his elbow. The dark-haired god looks startled, as though he would draw back; but he maintains his ground stiffly, relaxes by degrees. Steve lets his hand fall.

"What can you tell us about the Chitauri, Loki? And do you know why they would be here now?"

"When Ironman destroyed their principal ship, every Chitauri connected to it was also destroyed," Loki says. He's taller than Steve, but almost scrawny by comparison. Next to Thor, he's half a shadow. "Their power came from a central unit, but that unit also sustained them." He licks his lips tentatively. "Any Chitauri on Midgard now can't have come through the portal."

Steve knows there's another piece to this, something he should know how to ask, something he doesn't have the words for.

Tony says, "Why were they – (dressed? Is that the correct term, what do you even call it when a shapeshifter is wearing another shape?) anyway, I mean, why were they terrorists?"

Loki tilts his head, considers Tony with that strange scrutiny, that deeply considering gaze. Like he's looking at someone from front to back, collecting the pieces, assembling them into something he can internalize and understand. Something he can keep.

Steve gets the feeling that Loki, more often than not, puts these impressions together completely wrong. But maybe that's just with people who love him, because – even now – there is always that sheen of disbelief in his eyes when Thor claps a hand to his shoulder, shouts encouragement at him in battle, has his back on those rare occasions when Loki misses some beast sneaking up behind him.

"The Chitauri traditionally are," Loki allows. "Even the Skrulls so regard them."

"Is there a way for you to detect their presence on Earth?" Steve asks. He shifts back, his shield clinking against Tony's armor – Tony, who has come up behind him, has closed in on him.

Loki looks hesitant; then he looks very, very unhappy.

"Loki?" Thor asks pointedly.

"Yes," Loki says. He glances at his hands, and then at the sky. "If you will excuse me." He withdraws, but not out of sight. Then he closes his eyes, tilts back his head.

And – Steve will never do this description justice, people didn't _flicker_ in the forties – something happens where there is _less_ of Loki, somehow. Where he fades, where color is leached from his face and his hair and his clothing by minute degrees. For a moment, Steve swears he can see through his body to the rubble just beyond.

Then, all at once, he is back. He looks ashen, heavy bruises beneath his eyes, and Thor rushes over to him anxiously.

"Not looking too sprightly," Tony murmurs. "Not an afternoon kinda guy? Looks like he needs a nap. I could use a nap. I would actually, right this moment, love nothing so much as – "

"Tony," Steve murmurs, quieting him. Loki is waving his brother away, distracted; Thor fidgets, sharp, worried eyes seeking Loki's and finding no purchase there. Loki simply stares straight ahead.

"There are no Chitauri on Mid – on Earth," he says firmly as they approach. He doesn't waver, not really, but something in his bearing wants for support. A solid place to stand. "There may be, however, complications."

* * *

It's like this: Loki is a powerful magician. He can change his shape; he can teleport; he can project illusions of himself all over creation, in near-infinite numbers. He can lie, and lie, and lie. He can probably shoot little bolts of ice from his fingertips, ice _lasers._ Who even knows.

But another thing he can do is scry, which is something like spying on a person or group or place, except long-distance; a visual tracking system within the mind. Steve doesn't pretend to understand, it's just some more impossible magic.

But Loki explains how it's like opening a door, or a window. Except you choose what will be on the other side.

Loki says to the three of them, "I am not, as you can well imagine, on the best of terms with the Chitauri. They knew not, to seek me out here in this most unlikely of places." His expression is haggard, voice thready and worn.

Loki tells them, about opening the door: that it goes both ways. That the Chitauri can find him now. That there is a price on his head, to be paid in blood.

* * *

For the next week, Tony's busy with the finishing touches on Stark Tower – well, Avengers Tower is what he's started to call it. But, at any rate, all Steve has to do is lay low for a bit to avoid him. It's not hard, except that it _is_, because Steve is really – he feels like – he's just –

He likes Tony, is all. Misses his company, and every irritating thing the man says.

He doesn't, however, miss the ever-present guilt. So he spends his free time visiting Natasha in the hospital, where she is restrained by main force (strapped to the bed) and under guard (Agent Barton) because she has three cracked ribs and a twisted ankle. There's the small matter of the head injury, but it turns out she wasn't concussed after all. Her wrist is sprained, but is also negligible. Apparently. Possibly the injury is from her previous mission and therefore still healing.

Steve is not at all a fan of how well Natasha takes care of herself. He finds it perilously lacking, in fact.

"Hey, Cap," Hawkeye says, which isn't surprising because – well, Hawkeye and Natasha and their very mutual relationship of stalking-each-other-from-not-any-kind-of-distance-whatsoever.

But what _is_ surprising is Loki. He unfolds himself from one of the guest chairs when Steve enters the room, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Clint. Natasha. Loki," Steve says. Then, awkwardly: "Um. How are you guys doing?"

Loki remains standing, glancing down at Natasha's face. She has a few small bruises, still, across her cheek and the bridge of her nose. No scratches or scrapes or cuts, however, and nothing looks swollen.

"Natasha and Loki have developed this game," Clint says, a complicated smile on his lips, "where they lie to each other."

"Ah," Steve says. Clint glances up at him.

"One of them will tell two stories. The other must decide which is true," he explains. "A correct answer gains one point. A comprehensive explanation – that _I_ understand, mind – gains two points." He grins, a bit more openly. "I'm sort of like the referee."

"More like one of the game pieces," Natashas says. Clint wrinkles his nose at her.

"It is an exercise," Loki interjects, "to enhance our skills in conversational espionage and manipulation. I am quite fond of it."

"Of course it is," Steve says. "Of course you are." Then, regretting the question almost before he asks it, "Who is winning?"

"Loki's the better story-teller. Natasha's the better actor." Clint replies. He's got his bow in his lap and he's – fiddling with it, or cleaning it. Doing something complex with his fingers, anyway, which – well, Steve doesn't need to think about this further. What Clint does to, and with, his bow is Clint's own business.

"But we are both improving," Loki says, sounding tired but satisfied. "For example, your Black Widow has taught me a valuable lesson: sincere or not, every story is a performance. For her, there is no difference between making someone believe the lie and making them believe the truth. It is because she is not naturally expressive. She approaches both in the same manner. It is fascinating."

"But Loki can usually tell," she says, sitting up a bit straighter. "Based on the details. He keeps finding – inconsistencies."

"Rare," Loki says. "And grower steadily rarer."

Natasha – impossibly, bafflingly – smiles.

"I will take my leave," the tall god says to all three of them. He bows slightly. "I believe my – " he winces, bares his teeth for bare seconds – "I believe Thor is looking for me."

After he has gone – no wisp of smoke, no distortion of form; he uses the door, which Steve absurdly appreciates – Clint says,

"I never thought," and then stops. Natasha watches him quietly, that smile still ghosting her lips.

"You know what's it like," she says, all trace of emotion fallen from her like water, and this is her true face: thoughtful, analytical, empty. A blank slate. Her feelings aren't buried so much as released, and Steve wonders how it is. To be free. "You know what's it like to make a different call."

"I do," Clint says.

"How are your eyes?" Steve asks, unsure if this is a sore subject, or if it's okay. But he's curious, and if there are problems, he needs them remedied. He worries after all of them enough as it is.

"Fine," Clint says, glancing up at him. They catch blue in the light, lovely. "Sharp."

"Good." Steve says.

"Tony was in this morning," Natasha shifts in bed, hissing with pain, and Clint snorts

"You need to lie still, Nat," he chides. "Rib injuries suck."

"Don't I fucking know it," she grinds out. "Anyway, like I said – Tony was in, looked like he'd been up all night. But I think he was asking about you."

"You think?" Steve asks, leaning against the back of the empty chair Loki had been sitting in.

"He's not exactly lucid," she murmurs, "in the morning, after pulling all-nighters. But I think he mentioned you, yeah."

Steve hangs around a while, talking with them about – idle things. It's nice, it's low-key, and there are times when it's okay. When he's okay. When this whole world isn't about to swallow him up, when it's possible for him to not – _be_ – Captain America, to just be Steve Rogers, and for it not to eat away at him. He knows it's different, with the others; knows that there are continents between Bruce Banner and Hulk, knows that Tony Stark and Iron Man are a split coin, united but distinct. Knows that Natasha is wholly separate from everything about Black Widow. Knows that Hawkeye is compartmentalized, apart, focused; single-minded in the field; and that Clint is a bit silly, kind of an asshole but really all over the place.

Everyone has dual identities. Everyone can set their masks on the shelf.

Except for Steve; he feels no such partition within. Feels that he's Captain America to everyone, feels that Steve Rogers is a pale shadow: that scrawny kid from Brooklyn who looked, who'd looked anorexic and sickly and weak. Who fought losing battles. Who could never hope to be Captain America, and – and _isn't_.

Sometimes, Steve feels like this: if he isn't Captain America, he isn't anybody left alive; he's just another ghost from the past.


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn't happen when Natasha gets out of the hospital. It doesn't happen when Tony calls him, inhumanly distracted, to ask for a detailed description of how much shock Steve's vibranium shield actually absorbed when Thor struck it with Mjölnir. He makes Steve go over it three times, keeps asking impossible questions like, Was it the force of contact between the two materials that knocked you back, or is Thor just really heavy; and, How do you feel about getting Thor's dad to put some rune science on, it can still be patriotic, but it Norse stuff is really cool.

Also, coincidentally, it doesn't happen when Tony stops by a week later with a moving van.

"Your lease is up," he says, pushing his way into Steve's home. "You're not even packed? For shame."

"No it's not, I – packed – what," Steve, frustrated and really not in the mood for a barrage of Tony-speak, crosses his arms. He's immovable as stone, but Tony just slips around him anyway. So much for personal space and property, or respect for a fellow human being, Steve thinks. The thought makes him tired.

"Tomorrow's the first," Tony points out, as if this should explain everything. He's wearing a white Captain America t-shirt, which is embarrassing and makes Steve's chest kind of clench up and sink in on itself. It is, remarkably, pristine and stainless. It has probably never see Tony's lab; he probably purchased it on a whim on the drive over.

With his... moving van.

"Tony," Steve says slowly, carefully, as though addressing a feral child. "Tomorrow is not the first. It is actually the twenty-fourth."

"Steve," Tony says very seriously, not unkindly, "I know it's tricky, getting the hang of things in this shiny new future, but – "

Steve pulls out his StarkPhone. He unlocks the screen. He does the two-finger zoom-in thing to make the date/time app appear very large on the display, and then he shows it to Tony.

Today is, in fact, Wednesday the twenty-third of June.

"Why do you know how to do that," Tony grumbles, and Steve rolls his eyes.

"You taught me," he says. "People do grow and learn and change, you know."

"I'm sure," Tony says, who doesn't sound like it, who looks like maybe he feels he's never changed a day in his life. He's glancing around Steve's apartment – the pale blue walls, the heavy gray curtains, the cheerful yellow table that reminds Steve of his grandmother. He has one of her handmade doilies on it, beneath a potted plant.

"You have a peace lily," Tony says, and immediately goes over to inspect it. And possibly ruin it, because that is what happens when Tony messes with anything non-mechanical.

Steve stops him before thinking about it, gets his fingers around Tony's wrist, and says quickly, "Please don't. It's been hard enough keeping the thing alive when it's just me interacting with it."

It's the wrong thing to do, maybe, but Tony shifts on his feet, moves in close. Doesn't pull his hand back, and Steve can smell the peppermint of his toothpaste, the soap on his skin.

"You live alone with a houseplant, Steve," Tony murmurs, ducking his head. His eyelashes are long and dark, his eyes glinting beneath them. Hooded, heavy. "You do realize that's a step below cats, right? Don't become a cat person, Steve. You have so much to live for."

"I'm not here very much," Steve says defensively. "I'm barely around to water the thing."

"That's a patent lie," Tony says, and Steve can feel the heat of this body intimately, is positive that his heartbeat is so quick and erratic Tony can see his pulse flashing at his throat. Feels like it's impossible for anyone not to know just by looking at him, he's so damn obvious. "I didn't know you were physically capable of telling lies, what will the children think."

"We don't have children," Steve forces out, voice low and rough and not at all the careful construction of put-togetheredness he'd aimed for.

"If you weren't spending all your time cooped up in this depressing, empty place, you'd be spending it with me. Which leads me to my next question – "

"You don't know that," Steve says, irritated and just able to turn his head to the side. Which, in theory, was a good enough plan because it pulls his line of sight away from Tony; but in practice, it's actually a terrible idea. Because it gives Tony access to his neck. "I have," he breathes, meaning to continue on with _friends_, I do, I have plenty of them. But it's bitten off in a sharp moan because Tony's scraping his teeth along Steve's clavicle, is pressing the flat of his tongue in a long, wet stripe up Steve's throat.

"You have?" Tony whispers, voice ragged against Steve's jugular, and Steve is – he's just.

Fuck this. He's fucking _done_. A man can only take so much, and Steve is so far past his limit he's entering spacetime.

He kicks Tony's knees out from under him, knocks him inelegantly to the ground, is on him like a hungry dog on a bloody chunk of horseflesh. Gets his hands under Tony's ridiculous t-shirt, tears his blunt nails along the soft skin beneath. Ignores the startled yelp in favor of slanting his mouth over Tony's, hot and feverish and so goddamn desperate it's shameful.

"Whoa," Tony mutters between the the wet slide of their lips, between moans and soft cries as Steve manhandles him against the carpet, flips him onto his belly and ruts against him like a beast, through two pairs of jeans and Steve's boxer-briefs, already damp with precome.

"Cap, wait," Tony gets out, but he's doing a terrible job of telling Steve, No.

Unless, What are you _doing_, fuck me already, _please_, is how to communicate that sentiment nowadays.

Because Tony? He's intermittently bucking his ass back against Steve's hips, spreading his thighs. Moaning like a goddamn whore. Arching his spine snakelike, fingers like claws reaching back for Steve's hand or elbow or hip, whatever he can get ahold of. Grinding against Steve's cock, filthy and begging for it.

Steve's just about got Tony's shirt off, is dragging his teeth in hard crescents over every stretch of unmarked skin, is mouthing the faint, residual scarring (from torture, from battle, from carelessness and from self-sacrifice) with reverence.

"_Steve,_" Tony hisses, cautious or encouraging, who can even say; and Steve's got a hand fumbling at Tony's zipper when _Over the Rainbow_ starts playing quietly from his StarkPhone.

"Really?" Tony asks blankly. "Still? I could've sworn I changed it to _Star-Spangled Man_."

"I actually do know how to change my ringtone," Steve says, rolling his eyes. He reaches over and checks the caller ID; he doesn't get many calls, and he always answers. It could be an emergency, and what's the point of having a phone if you don't pick up? It's an argument he frequently has with Tony.

When the number and photo flash over the screen, Steve freezes, the tension locking up every muscle in his body. "It's Pepper."

"Shit," Tony sighs. "I'm not here."

Fighting to get his breathing under control, Steve answers his phone.

He's not about to lie for Tony. He's really not. It's not something he would do for anyone.

"Hi, Steve," Pepper says when he picks up. "How are you?"

"Um," he murmurs intelligently, "I'm okay. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Busy. You know how it is, Tony's always got a million projects on the table and then seems to leave them half-finished. He hates everything remotely related to paperwork, patents, employee concerns, the board. Basically everything outside of his workshop. And Stark Industries is a madhouse this time of year."

"I can imagine," says Steve, who sort of can. He has only a vague idea of what goes on within a multi-billion dollar technology company at the top of its field, at the height of its power, with someone like Pepper Potts running the show. But he knows what _busy_ means.

"So, I've been meaning to ask you – " and oh god, here it comes, this is Steve's life and it's terrible, " – how you've been holding up. In general."

"Oh," Steve says, and nothing else comes out.

"It's okay," she says after a beat, her voice lovely and sweet and reassuring. She's pretty much the nicest person in the world and Steve is a complete scumbag. He hates scumbags. He's a self-loathing scumbag. "I know it can be a lot to handle, sometimes. And I don't know if anyone has told you, yet, but – I'm truly sorry for your loss, Steve. We all are." She makes this little humorless laugh. "Even if we don't all show it."

Something shudders inside of him, a hot lick of grief expanding his lungs, twisting up in his guts. As sharp as the day he woke up in that creepy, make-believe bedroom at SHIELD, and was told everyone he loved was dead.

"I know it's hard, and I think I understand a little. How it feels to be alone, with nothing to distract you but work." It shouldn't be possible, making someone feel good and bad at once. Two extremes filtering right through each other, this pit of despair at his core and this soaring, soothing warmth in the cage of his ribs. Pepper manages it. She does it effortlessly, probably because she would never try to do that to somebody.

"It's – it's fine," Steve manages, not looking at Tony, not looking at anything but his empty hand. "It's not something I can – fix, or. Change."

"No," Pepper agrees softly. "It isn't. I just – you seem depressed, lately. I want to make sure you're okay."

"I appreciate it," he says. "But it's not – your concern. It's nothing you need to worry about, ma'am."

There's a sigh on the line, gentle, and a rustle like Pepper is going through paperwork. He imagines what life must be like, for her – beautiful, competent to a fault, brilliant. Stuck with babysitting superheroes, with doing Tony's dirty work and running his company because no one else on the planet is qualified. "But I do worry. And Tony worries, too."

"Thank you," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"By the way," she asks, "Have you seen him lately? Usually he's in his lab, but I haven't been able to track him down today."

"I've been home all morning," he says. It just slips out, innocuous, a lie by insinuation but perfectly true in every technical sense. The guilt wells up in him immediately, doesn't even give him room to breathe.

"I figured as much," Pepper sighs again. "Well, if you run into him, have him give me a call."

"I will."

"Oh, and Steve?" She says. "You can call me, too. If you ever need someone to talk to. You really can."

There's a span of moments where Steve's throat is tight, where he can't unsee Peggy's determined, beautiful face. Where he can't let go of Bucky after he's already fallen to unreachable depths. Can't look away from Howard Stark in his mind's eye, impossibly young, erratic and smart, and one day everything Steve has lost is going to kill him. It's too much for one person.

All these people who had a hand in building you, who leave you. How more of you disappears with each proximate death until you're so alone that there's nothing left of you.

He swallows, careful and deliberate. "I might just take you up on that, Pepper. Thank you."

"Any time, Steve," she says, and ends the call.

Tony doesn't say anything for awhile, and Steve isn't sure if he heard both sides – he's not sitting unbearably close – but he probably got the gist from Steve's half of the conversation.

Presently, he reaches over and folds Steve's hand into his own. Draws him from his slumped sitting position back onto the floor, and Steve is unresisting, boneless. Tony stretches out all along his side, and they stare at the ceiling.

They stay like that for a long time, and Tony doesn't let go of his hand.

* * *

"I don't think you realize," Steve says eventually, "how amazing Pepper is. I can't figure you out, Tony."

"You trying to steal my girl?" Tony chides, shifting closer, his hand stealing over Steve's belly. Like he thinks it's funny, like he's making a joke.

Steve sits up sharply, levels a hard glare down at him. "You shut your mouth about that. This is terrible. I don't see how you could," do _this_ to someone as precious as her; throw everything perfect about your life into the trash; love her so sincerely and still want someone as lost as me. "Sometimes I think you – you're a really decent guy, and you say things like – like cutting the wire, and then you _guide a nuclear warhead into space_, and I think, okay, you're just a terrible liar." Steve fumes, fingers digging into the carpet. "I think I've misjudged you, that aren't selfish jerk, and I learn to weed out all the _bullshit_ you constantly spew – "

"Hey – " Tony says, insulted.

" – and just pay attention to the things you actually _do_, the good things, how you _save_ people," Steve says. He can't look at Tony right now; he can see a memory of him, poking at Banner, trying to make him feel welcome. Steve had misunderstood Tony from the very beginning. "But now you're doing this," Steve finishes finally. "And I don't know what to think. I know you aren't a bad person, Tony." I know how I feel about you, he thinks wretchedly.

"Steve," Tony says, his voice sharp but his eyes soft. "I love Pepper. I do. But I – jesus, _look_ at you. I don't – how could I – do you think I can fucking _stop myself_?" he mumbles, his fingers curling in Steve's shirt, dragging him down. "God, you're. You're just," but then he's kissing Steve again, hands shaking, grabbing at him like a lifeline.

"_No_," Steve tells him. "We can't, we need to, to stop – we – " but it's too late. Tony's too close, he feels too good, he _tastes_ too good, and the way Steve is out of his damn mind about this ridiculous man just wells up and bursts inside of him, blinds him. Takes control.

It isn't desperate this time, and it isn't loud and they don't rut like animals. Tony somehow maneuvers them into Steve's bedroom, whispers something about saying goodbye to his swingin' bachelor pad that makes Steve's cock stiffen all over again.

Because Tony is a presumptuous bastard, he's got lube and condoms in his back pocket. Like he expected they'd do this more than once. Like he was planning on it.

"C'mon," Tony breathes, on his back, shifting and arching and writhing beneath Steve's body, "I just, I want you to," and Steve whispers, rough and needy,

"I know." Because he does, on a cellular level. He pulls Tony's shirt off slowly, tossing it over his desk chair. Lets his eye adjust to the light, drags his fingers over the ragged scarring around the arc reactor.

"Pretty, I know," Tony says, self-deprecating and sarcastic and tired, but Steve shakes his head.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs, and does something he didn't have the chance to, last time – presses his lips against each warm triangle, rubs his cheek against the metallic surface like a cat.

"Steve," Tony murmurs, _trembles_, like – like he's some broken thing, like Steve is taking him apart piece by piece. He's got it all wrong, though.

Steve is the one in pieces around Tony. He's just better at hiding it, usually.

"Shh," Steve says, gentle and soothing, easing Tony's jeans down over his hips, catching the pads of his fingers on the hollows and dips of Tony's abdomen. "Lie back."

If they're going to do this – if it's something neither of them can help, if Steve is damned, regardless – well. It's going to be on his own terms. He'll pave his own road to hell, thank you very much.

He lets Tony strip him, but doesn't let him do it fast. He guides Tony's hands, he doesn't break eye contact, he wets his lips when Tony's irises become a thin line at the edges of pupils blooming black, like they're trying to swallow whole all that can be seen.

Then, the both of them laid bare, skin flushed and hot and skidding together, Steve skips his fingertips over the curve of Tony's ass; dips between, slides his fingers over that tight pucker before withdrawing. Remembers how it felt to be inside him.

That first time, Tony had prepped himself; Steve isn't sure, but he thinks maybe it's – more intimate, this way. He doesn't claim to know the ins and outs of physical intimacy; only what feels right, to him. Only how he wants every part of Tony, wants them in this together. Doesn't want them using each other in place of something else.

If they're going to do this, if Steve is going to be involved in something that will hurt another person so deeply, someone who's never wronged him, someone he actually _likes_ – then it's not going to be for nothing, for something worthless. For something you could trade anywhere.

He twists the cap off the bottle of lube, squeezes it into his hand with a soft, wet sound; rubs it between his fingers to warm it a bit before hitching one of Tony's thighs against his shoulder, pressing a slick finger inside.

Tony is watching him, eyes hooded, lip caught between his teeth. He doesn't make a sound, and he doesn't look away.

Steve works his finger in up to the second knuckle and Tony exhales sharply, startled and shy, flushed and gorgeous and perfect.

"There?" Steve asks, crooking his finger. "Is that the spot?"

"Nngh," Tony moans, rolling his hips up, his cock heavy where it just barely brushes Steve's belly. "Yes, that's – yes," he chokes out as a second finger goes in, scissoring him open with slow, easy movements.

There is silence for a time, the pale daylight creeping in around the curtains to bathe Tony in gold; the ever-present teal glow over his heart, staining their bodies and the bed and the wall; the way the sweat on his throat and chest bead, luminescent, like tiny jewels.

The soft sounds Tony makes as Steve takes his time, fingers him until his own cock is throbbing and leaking, until he can't keep from touching himself with his free hand.

Tony gasps, sharp and bright, when Steve finally slides in a third finger. He leans forward on the mattress, bends Tony in half, so they can share a wet kiss while he lazily circles Tony's prostate.

"I'm," Tony's breath hitches, tight and anxious, worn and thready, "I'm – please, can you – I want..."

"Yes," Steve whispers, brushing his mouth against Tony's forehead, his chest, his ribs. Kissing down over hip, his thigh, teasing a soft, wet tongue to the underside of Tony's cock before leaning back, settling Tony's stiff calves on his shoulders.

He stares down at the man below him, undone. Stutters his fingertips over the ridges of that scarred chest, frames the arc reactor in his strong hands. Takes him in, heart in his throat.

Tony's eyes flicker up to his, lock on. He shifts, curves his spine, grips his legs around Steve to slide closer until Steve's cock is nudging up against him.

"Condom," Steve rasps, reaching blindly for the foil square.

"Just," Tony mutters, arching his back, "I'm not, there's no one, I," he presses closer. The head of Steve's dick slides agonizingly slowly over his lube-slicked ass, and Steve has to bite back a moan.

"No, we're, we're going to," he mutters, frustrated and _responsible_, he's Captain fucking America and he _will use protection during an affair_. His fingers finally closing over the wrapper, and he tears into it with abandon; rolls the condom over his cock with shaking fingers, clumsy, while Tony whines and begs beneath him.

"Steve, please, you've have to," Tony gets out, "I need you to – I – "

"Shut up, I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs. Then, one hand on the back of Tony's thigh, the other around his own cock, Steve guides himself inside.

He presses in slowly, inch by inch, watching Tony's expression as it shutters itself, breaks apart, emotions chasing each other over his face until Steve's sunk in to the hilt. He stays there for a minute, heart pounding furiously, swollen cock wrapped up in Tony's tight, burning body.

"Steve, you've," Tony breathes, hardly audible.

"Mm? Hey. Tell me what you need."

"Just," Tony sighs, pulling his thighs against his chest, open and pleading and waiting, head thrown back against the pillow, "please, just fucking _move_."

"Okay," Steve says, sliding carefully out. "Okay, Tony."

He keeps up the pace, makes sure Tony feels every goddamn inch. He's so hard it's almost unbearable, knows with crystal certainty that if he hadn't had the serum, he'd have shot his load a dozen times over.

But he has had the serum, so it's a part of him. And Steve can go for hours.

He builds Tony to orgasm by degrees, kisses him through it until Tony's screaming against his mouth.

Then he does it again, with Tony on his belly, angling into him while Tony pants, ragged and raw. He pulls at Tony's cock until his sheets are spattered with come. It's a wonderful feeling, maneuvering him how he likes, shifting and bending and gently manhandling him into position; and yeah, yoga, hands down the best invention ever. Tony's _pliable_, his hips fall open so easily and the bend of his back makes Steve's mouth go dry.

The third time, Steve allows his focus to drift, allows himself go faster, harder, until Tony has tears in his eyes, so sensitive from coming twice already, and Steve is gasping his name. And then Steve is seeing stars.

"I can't," Tony says blearily, unmoving and flushed and forcing out words like his lungs are on fire, "jesus christ, I, you." His voice sounds like it's all full of holes, his hands reaching blindly for Steve's body. "If you were – if you were gonna go again, I'd have to," he sighs, nuzzles his sweaty face into Steve's sweaty shoulder. "To stop you, I'm so fucked-out it fucking _hurts_, fuck," he exhales.

Steve gets his arms around Tony, pulls him close. They're naked on his unmade bed, sticky with come and sweat and saliva and lube, lying in wrinkled sheets that are messy with more of the same.

Tony shifts into the circle of his arms, then laughs softly and reaches up with a tired, lazy fingertip. "You," he yawns, "'ve got come on your jaw."

"Mmhmm," Steve mumbles.

"I wish," Tony says into his neck, "I wish this was my life."

"What? Tony," Steve says, hazy and stupid with that pitch-perfect blend of relaxation and contentment that always follows monstrous orgasms. "S'your life. Living it. You." He's drifting off, promising himself he'll see to this disgusting mess in a minute or two. Right now, the sun is warm on his back and Tony warm in his arms.

"No, no," Tony sighs tiredly.

"I wish," he continues after an interminable amount of time, seconds or minutes, voice thick with sleep, just before Steve drifts off himself: "I just. I want to _keep _you."

* * *

Three hours later, Tony's phone is going off. It's got to be Tony's phone, because it has a ridiculous heavy metal ringtone that jolts Steve awake, heart in his throat, the gray traces of dream-grenades billowing into nothingness like pale smoke.

"Fuck," Tony says, and then: "Hello? Oh."

"Yeah, sorry," he says, rolling onto his side. He's turned toward Steve, whose face is half buried in the pillow, and Tony wrinkles his nose at the mess they've made. "No, no, I'll be home later. I was going to stop by our newly repaired Tower, bring some things over, you know."

Steve slides out of bed, a wonderful ache in his bones as he stretches. But it's slowly seeping out of him, replaced by visceral guilt that creeps in to take its place.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I'll see you when you get back then? I know, Pepper, I just," he pauses, listening. Rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you something disgustingly expensive. No, I know. Love you too. Bye."

After he hangs up, he throws himself back on the bed dramatically. "Life is terrible, and also, we are so incredibly gross right now. Shower?"

Steve looks at him for a minute, traces with his eyes the fine bones of Tony's face and the scruffy, day-old stubble overtaking the clean lines of his goatee. His dark, mussed hair and the pillow lines on his skin. The way he hasn't taken his eyes off Steve since he's opened them, during the entirety of his phone conversation.

"Yeah," Steve says at last. "All right."

They take their time. Steve is efficient, unselfconscious, but Tony is – oddly reticent, watchful. And, for once, quiet.

While he's rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, Tony shifts past him, snags the conditioner. The cage over his heart, lovely and full of light, brushes against Steve's arm; the alternating textures distract him, and he automatically slips his hands around Tony's waist. Smears foam on his hips and belly.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey yourself, Cap," Tony replies. He isn't looking at Steve; he isn't looking at anything, though he's pretending to read the – the ingredients label on a hair care product. From about two feet away.

"So," Steve asks him curiously, "you can – get this wet?" He slides his fingers over the smooth surface, skating around the scarred edges, and Tony goes still in his arms; glances furtively at him, looks away just as quickly.

"Yeah," he says. "It's – waterproof. Sort of like stainless steel. High iridium content." His eyebrows are pulled together, and if he's not frowning, he's not exactly – _not _frowning, either. His hair is wet, flat curls against his forehead and neck, longer than it looks when it's dry. There's water streaming into his eyes.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, I – it's nothing," Tony says abruptly, and then he turns his back on Steve.

The shower's warm, steam curling lazily around them both, but there's more than heat to the flush on the back of Tony's neck.

He's acting – _shy_.

It's like a blow to the solar plexus, because this is something he never would've expected from Tony Stark.

Steve pulls him close, laughing softly. "You're ridiculous," he says against a wet ear. "You're a complete exhibitionist in bed, but as soon as we get in the shower together you're – what, modest?"

Tony glances over his shoulder at him, wrinkles his nose. "Of course not," he he snorts, but he doesn't turn around. And he doesn't sound convincing, doesn't sound like even he believes what he's saying.

"It's just," he adds delicately, "in bed, I'm not – it's usually dark. There are sheets and things. Is this weird? I know this thing is, is weird. And I can't turn it off." He's starting to warm to his subject, shifting in Steve's arms so that the pale glow of his arc reactor is trapped between their wet bodies. "It's in the way and it keeps Pepper awake and people stare when I'm in public unless I wear a three-piece suit which, by the way, is not at all amenable to a New York summer," he babbles.

"Tony," Steve tries.

"And here you are looking like a fucking model, just goddamn perfect down to your ankles, and I'm – not," he says at last, like it has to be pried out of him. "In addition to my other defects."

"You're _not_ def – "

"Physically defective, as in some of the broken things, lots of wear and tear. Not mentally, of course, since everyone knows I'm brilliant, which is why I don't make it to the gym every single day, and I just." He trails off, darting furtive looks at Steve's face. "I have so many things to do in the lab, so my body is imperfect because I have a perfect fucking brain."

There's an awkward silence while Steve stares openly at him.

Tony washes distractedly with a strawberry loofah over his chest.

Steve reaches over and takes it gently from his hands.

"It helps with the scar tissue," Tony mutters.

Steve turns him gently, guides him against the tile, scrubs at his back; the criss-cross and spatter of pale abrasions; a long, thin line over his ribs and shoulder blade in a jagged, angular crescent. Shrapnel, torture, minor abrasions from three months of terrible living conditions and substandard-is-the-understatement-of-the-year medical treatment.

"I'm not sure if you remember," Steve says, scrubbing along Tony's spine less than he's caressing it, "but you thought I was repulsive and anorexic before I had the serum."

"I didn't – "

"You did," Steve says, voice firm. "And after, you said I wasn't – special – _because _I'd had the serum."

"That was," Tony tries again, shoulders in an unhappy line, but Steve cuts him off a second time.

"Whatever your misgivings about my body, it's – it's me," Steve says. He hopes, too. "This is me, and a part of me, and it's what you," only he can't quite say _want_; instead he says, " – like. Unless I've completely misread your, uh. Signs."

"You haven't," Tony says. He turns around, lips thin and white. "I'm just not sure why we're doing this."

It takes a minute for Steve's mind to process what Tony says, but when he does – he can't get past it. It keeps catching, like a scratched and skipping record, over and over and over.

If Steve was honestly looking for an answer – to the guilt and the crushing desire, to the way Steve can't put up much of a fight – he has it.

But Tony doesn't seem to have a reason, beyond base carnal attraction for a body he doesn't even like. It's just another selfish thing he's doing, he's fucking hurricane, a natural disaster and who gives a shit about collateral damage.

Steve doesn't say a word while they towel off, and if Tony notices his stony silence, he doesn't show it; he just gets dressed, shoves a hand through his dark, messy hair, and glances around Steve's apartment.

"We should probably get started packing," he says with an awkward, lopsided smile that Steve fucking _loves_. In spite of everything. The feeling just flares to life in his chest, possessive and terrible, the strange offspring of his instinct to protect, to impress. To keep safe and to also be valued by.

Steve says, careful to keep his face blank and voice even, "Yeah. Let's get to it." And doesn't offer up any resistance; and does most of the heavy lifting; and wishes Tony knew why he was sleeping with Steve.

Because Steve knows why he's sleeping with Tony.

He's unhappy and quiet, resigned. Tony doesn't notice.

* * *

"So when Pepper called earlier," Tony says out of nowhere, over – of all things – fondue.

They've spent the last couple of hours at the Tower, where Tony's excitement was infectious as he'd lead Steve room by room, showed off an entire floor that was just for him.

It's everything, it's just what Tony said it would be, and it's – too much, on every level. It's perfect, and he's grateful, and it seemed like it was put together with him in mind: intuitive, maybe dated so it'd be familiar; not overly technological, nothing he isn't used to. It will be a wonderful home for him.

It still isn't what he wants.

He thinks about what his life will be like, leaving Brooklyn; thinks about the corner shops where he grew up that are so vastly different from a lifetime ago, neighbors that have been dead for years, or their half-familiar descendants. The ghost of his grandmother, the shredded memories of his parents.

He didn't even think about picking up his small, isolated life and moving on. He wonders if he should have, if he should feel some kind of hollow regret. He doesn't.

They spent a good fifteen minutes trying to work the electric fondue pot Tony'd found sitting out, because JARVIS isn't completely online yet; eventually they are successful, even if the cheese is a bit burned.

Steve kind of likes it that way. It's his first time, fonduing, and he almost doesn't care at all; there is no coming full circle, no elliptic perspective to be gained from this, eating French food with his lover, the son of the man he once thought of as a romantic rival for someone who's been dead for twenty years.

Little things like sentimental connections through time and generation, through blood, are worthless when you've lost so much. It isn't like getting something back. It isn't anything at all.

And Steve really doesn't want to hear what Tony has to say about Pepper. But he did promise.

"I had a date with her tonight," he says ruefully, licking cheese of his fingers. "That I forgot about."

"You _stood Pepper up_?," Steve says, exasperated, trying to keep his little pronged fork from stabbing into multiple pieces of bread at once.

"I forgot to write it down," he says.

"Wouldn't she have reminded you?" Steve asks, because Pepper does everything, always.

Tony snorts, but it's – a comparatively unhappy sound, if you're used to hearing him in good humor. "Of course," he says. "As long as it isn't her birthday or plans we have together or when she's going out of town. She refuses to remind me of any of those things."

"I wouldn't either," Steve says, only catching the implication too late – he'd meant it as a general, Pay attention to people who love you, Tony. He hadn't meant it as an, If we were dating, I'd be just like Pepper.

He cuts his losses and lets it hang there between them.

Tony looks at him for a long time.

"You wouldn't have to," Tony says at last. He looks incredibly unhappy, and angry. "I always know where you are, Steve."

Steve doesn't know what to say to this, and he doesn't really understand who Tony is mad at, here. "Well, I guess JARVIS usually," begins, but Tony shakes his head sharply.

"No, _listen_ to me," he says. "I could ask JARVIS where Pepper is. She tells him everything."

"I don't understand what your point is," Steve says, and he doesn't mean to raise his voice, he really doesn't. Tony's just so damn frustrating.

"I don't think I could get by without her," he says, hands flat on the table, "I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know know what she'll do when she finds out I've been – fucking around on the _side_, it's – it's going to be terrible, and she'll _leave_ me, and I'll be losing my best friend," he rages. He means to go on, it's all over his face – but Steve has gone cold, has stood stiffly, and the words die on Tony's lips.

"Thank you for that," Steve says, voice flat and icy, as hard as he can make it. "It's good to know where I stand."

"Shut _up_ for a sec, please, just _listen to me_," Tony shouts, and he's standing, too, and Steve wants to _punch him_.

"I _have _been listening, Tony! You keep bringing up Pepper, how much you love her and how much you can't _live without her_, and I'm not here to justify your guilt! I'm – "

"Steve, it's not – you don't under_stand_, I'm trying to – "

"Then," he says, hands in tight fists, "_make_ me understand. Please." This last word scrapes out much softer than he means it to – revealing, exposed, pathetic. "Because I'm really trying to, Tony."

Tony looks terrible, frustrated and sad and alone, and Steve remembers how hard he had to fight just to get to know him this well.

He says, far more kindly, "Tony. Give me the general strategy before deploying the troops."

Tony blinks at him; and then he's laughing, and it's – it's really that easy.

"I'm sorry, Steve," he says around his fits. "You must think I'm batshit-fucking-insane."

"Not the exact description that comes to mind," Steve says. "But yeah, absolutely."

Tony laughs, sharp and loud through his nose. Then he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. Then he blinks up at Steve, wary and determined. It's an odd combination. His face is still flushed from laughing, and he's – he's lovely.

"I'm leaving Pepper for you, Cap," he says firmly, and the bottom drops out of Steve's stomach. A freefall. Slow-motion sickness and terror.

"I'm leaving Pepper, and she's my best friend, and I see her every day and she _runs my fucking company_. Without her, I can't find my ass with both hands." Tony says. "It's pitiful. But she deserves to be with someone who'll, I don't know, actually put out – she's going to start getting suspicious about all these headaches I've been having – "

Steve, who's still incredulous, lost, and completely tripping all over I'm leaving Pepper for you, Cap, is completely derailed. "Wait, back up a minute. You haven't been – ?"

Tony shakes his head. He looks miserable. "No. Not that we have a whole hell of a lot of time together anyway these days, but I – didn't want to."

"So what have you been doing for the past – Tony, it's been months – "

"Don't I fuckin' know it," he mutters. "After that first time, I didn't know what to do about you. I wanted to give you time to – I don't know, show your cards? Make a move? Only," and here he looks irritated, and more than a little dejected. "You never did, and then you got angry when _I_ did, but you. You didn't stop me."

"No," Steve answers. "I didn't."

"So, look," Tony says, fiddling with his fondue fork, kicking at the solid table leg with bare feet. "Do you – want to be my boyfriend?"

Steve stares at him. "What the fuck, Tony! As far as Pepper knows, you're still marrying her!" He hates this – he hates that Tony is really that asshole, and he hates that he wants him so badly. He hates that Tony's offering him up this messy solution, that he'll leave Pepper, be with Steve, take the brunt of the guilt. Will make an honest man out of him or whatever.

"Pepper and I aren't engaged," Tony replies, brow furrowed. "Not that it matters, we're in a committed relationship and I definitely cheated on her, but – "

Steve's mind sort of goes blank, and then he feels like a complete idiot. He'd just assumed, because they lived together. He'd never asked. It's not like Tony ever wears a ring.

"Anyway," Tony says brightly, "I'd rather marry you."

"Jesus christ," Steve says, collapsing into a chair.

"You're getting quite the potty mother, Cap, I can't say we've been the best influence – "

"Tony," Steve says, "Please. Can you – can you take me home?"

Something passes over Tony's face, confusion and maybe hurt or disappointment. Unease. Doubt. "You're – this is home."

"Right," Steve sighs. "Can you please – leave me alone for the night?"

"Well, I mean," Tony says awkwardly, like he can't string together all the right words, "it's not – live-in yet, it'll be another few days. We can go back to the mansion, I have – spare rooms. I. Is something wrong?"

He looks so uncertain, something like fear in his eyes, and Steve waves him off. "No, I just – Tony. We're having an affair. And I'm moving in with you and your – significant other, as well as the rest of our friends. And then you just kind of spring on me that you're leaving Pepper for me. And now you're saying you want to _marry me_?"

Tony's face does a complicated thing where he looks incredibly earnest, and then – slowly, piece by piece – he reigns everything in. Closes up tight, boards up the windows of his expression like an abandoned house. "So you don't want to – be with me."

"It's not that, Tony, jesus," Steve says, heart racing like he's going into cardiac arrest. "This is just going very fast, and I would've liked to have been consulted. You can't just – make these decisions on your own."

"What other decision is there?" Tony ask, voice like a whip. "I can't stay with Pepper after I've been with you. I can't string her along when I'm not in love with her. And if you – if you don't want to be with me, I – I regret that, but I'm still leaving her. I have to. Steve, if you just – "

"Sir," JARVIS says over the intercom, polite but distant, not at all like the JARVIS at the mansion, "Colonel Fury is on the line. He says it's urgent."

"We are not done with this," Tony whispers desperately as Fury patches in.

Steve's just thinking, We aren't even dating and we're already penciling in arguments around our busy schedules. These are all the worst parts of a relationship.

Then he has to bark a startled, "What did you say?"

And Fury repeats: "It's Loki. He's destroying Central Park."


	5. Chapter 5

"This was sort of meant to be a surprise," Tony says, making a beeline for what will eventually be Steve's bedroom. "A welcome home – thing. Mark the occasion, whatever, but in the present circumstances – "

"Tony," Steve says, "I really don't think this is the time."

"What?" Tony asks blankly, pulling open Steve's closet, only – it's not a closet, it's a little walk-in room with his uniform.

Except it's not, strictly speaking, _his_ uniform. It's newer. The design is largely the same, but there are small differences that Steve gathers in detail, makes comprehensive note of.

"Everyone's always underestimating your shoulders," Tony mutters, holding the top part of it up. "Mobility is key. I've been trying to put my finger on it for months, so what I've done is," he starts, but Steve leans in and kisses him.

It's short, chaste. He uses the distraction to take the uniform from Tony.

"You're – not mad anymore? If this was all it took, I should've – "

"No, I'm still furious. But we don't have time to go over every amazing and insane thing you've done to my Captain America costume, which I'm sure you didn't have time for, since I know you haven't been sleeping. So you can tell me on the way."

Tony spares a moment to look at him, really look – his dark eyes warm over Steve's face, drink in the set of his back and the whites of his knuckles. Caress his throat with the intensity of a touch.

"Right," he says. "I've got one of my suits lying around here, I think. Somewhere."

Because Tony has suits everywhere, naturally. He hides them like old ladies hide cash in mattresses and in the pages of books.

Once they're suited up – Tony's wearing the Mark-whatever (Steve's lost count because he just keeps building them, he suspects they are beginning to spawn) and the shield has been fetched from the front seat of the moving van – Tony snags Steve by the waist, drags him close.

The armor is hard and unyielding against Steve's chest, and this is the only time when Tony is his height – if not slightly taller.

"So we're going to have to talk about this boyfriend thing," he says very seriously, eyes searching.

"We have to save New York, possibly from an insane god. Again. So not just now."

"Right," Tony says, and then there's the hot slide of his mouth on Steve's, the dip of his tongue. The way the cold metal fingers of his armor curl gently around Steve's jaw, chilling and cradling him at once, like he is something precious.

Then, all at once, Tony withdraws like he hadn't been kissing Steve breathless. Steps back with a faint half-smile and shining eyes, with wet, red lips.

There is a faint mechanical whirring and two Steve-sized hand bars angle out of Ironman's chest, near the juncture of his shoulders.

"So you wrap your arms around my chest," Tony says easily, turning so his back is to Steve and grinning like a little kid. "Cross your forearms and grip the opposite handles. And there are – " from just above where each achilles tendon would be, if the suit were a person and happened to have them, two trays fold back; placed just so, formed to the boots Steve prefers, the shoe-size and the curve and the tread, and they tighten marginally when Steve, shield strapped to his back, steps up onto them.

"Whoa," Tony murmurs, "JARVIS, adjust for balance. And..." Helmet folding down over his face, he lifts off. Arms free, stabilizers uninhibited, and blasts off toward Central Park. "There we go," he laughs, voice tinny and dear, distant and close at once.

Steve tightens his grip on Ironman's chest, relaxes against the armor's back, lets gravity secure him further as the suit levels out, bears them as the crow flies.

It's better than being carried princess-style, and safer. It's better than the awkward sideways-hug that Steve is always terrified will end with him plummeting to his death.

It's pretty much the best thing ever.

* * *

Central Park is in pieces. Trees torn up by their roots, the grounds a mess of mud and ragged foliage, the greatest of the five main bodies of water – The Reservoir – broken apart along the rocky banks, bare earth exposed where whole swatches of stone edging have cracked apart, water seeping in and bubbling out like blood.

Because the lake is boiling, the surface dotted with dead fish, belly-up, and more than a few ducks who appear to have been steamed to death.

It's disgusting, but Steve's seen worse. Ironman lands, leaning forward slightly to accommodate Steve's weight even as Steve lets go, steps down. The grips disappear, absorbed back into the armor, seamless.

"Status," Steve says into his communicator, there's a beat of silence before Natasha answers.

"Loki's on the Great Lawn," she says tersely. "Dead center. Hawkeye's got a bead on him from the roof of the Met, and I'm just off 85th. He hasn't seen me."

And he wouldn't. Natasha is a shadow, a non-entity, to gods and mortals alike until she chooses to show herself.

"Where's Thor? Bruce?" Steve asks, and beside him Tony is scanning the area, probably having JARVIS compile a preliminary assessment of the damage based on what they can see so far.

"Not here," she says.

"Ironman," Steve says, switching his comm off. "Can you – ?"

"I'll get an aerial," he says. "But you probably want to head in from 9 o'clock. We'll have him in on three sizes and – "

"We can back him up against Turtle Pond, right."

"Right." Tony pushes off into the air, speeding away until he becomes a distant gleam in the sky.

Five minutes later has Steve circling the softball fields, smeared beyond all recognition, gouged and trawled into each other like some great beast set it claws to the park out of whole cloth.

There's garbage in the air, debris and detritus, chunks of wood and stone from one – or both – of the schists. There's a wild wind curling almost lazily through the air, but heavy-hitting: an invisible leviathan. Planetary motion in the dark of space, impossibly huge, too big to see.

"Cap," Tony's voice comes through on the comm, "he's definitely in the middle of all this. I have no idea how Hawkeye's going to get a clear shot with all this shit flying around – "

"Just because your idea of finesse is razing entire towns," comes Clint's voice for the first time, unimpressed.

"That was _one time_," Tony complains, and Steve despairs of ever having a functional, professional team. Who might work in tandem, who might leave off the personal jibes. At least while they're working.

"Anyway, Natasha's fallen back to the treeline. She should probably stay there, her ribs – "

"Shut up, Stark," Natasha says. "I'm perfectly capable of hand-to-hand."

"But you could probably do without the bludgeoning, Tasha," Clint adds.

"Fuck you, Hawkeye."

"Guys," Steve says, shield up, squinting across the grounds and catching glimpses, here and there, of a hunched, dark form. "Here's what we'll do. Ironman, keep out of range, but keep me updated on his movements. Hawkeye – get closer, high up in one of the trees that Loki hasn't destroyed. Make sure you keep away from the perimeter and anything that's already been obliterated. Natasha, cover him."

"Copy," Natasha and Clint say at once, their voices twisting together into a kind of song: evenly pitched, measured just the same, but on different vocal spectrums. He wonders how they ever manage without each other, they're so ridiculously in-sync.

"Cap," Tony's saying, "Cap, what are you – "

"I gave you an order," Steve says firmly. "Follow it." He's advancing, knows Tony can see him from the sky; but it doesn't matter, because he's dancing around rubble, climbing over splintered tree trunks piled like unused lincoln logs, getting his shield up in time to protect his body from a jagged length of chain link fence. It scrapes over him, tangles briefly, malleable as a nylon net, but eventually passes on.

"_Steve_," Tony hisses in his ear through the comm. "What the fuck are you doing, you – "

"Shut up, Ironman," Steve says, using the alias to put distance between them, to remind Tony that they are _in the middle of heroing_, and could he _please focus on the task at hand_.

"We're in position," Natasha's voice cuts clear and true through Tony's panicked growls.

"Good," Steve says. "Stay there."

Another tree breaks apart, flows around him, and then a small, cracked boulder; a buck-sized torrent of small, ornamental stones from one of the lakeshores rains down on his head, the sound like hail on his shield, and –

– and then he's standing behind Loki, that trickster god who grins and lies. On his knees, clothing in rags. Blood on the ground, a growing pool of red, and.

And no casualties have been reported.

"Loki," Steve shouts, but his voice is lost in the wind. The closer he gets, the harder it is to press on; the wind moves and breathes around him like a living thing, heavy, immovable as stone.

"Status," Tony shouts in his ear. "I've lost visual, Cap – I can't see you, answer me you dumb fuck – "

"I'm right here," Steve replies, irritated and unnerved, because something is – _wrong_ – here. "There's no cause for foul language."

"You're walking up to a _bag-of-cats-crazy_ _god_," Tony shouts, "I'm coming down!"

"No, you're not!" Steve shouts back. "This is an order, Ironman."

"Fuck orders," Tony hisses, and Steve glances up sharply to see him fall from the sky.

"_TONY_!" Steve all but screams, "stand the fuck down!"

Tony falters (probably shocked at Steve's foul mouth, but you've got to talk to people in a language they can understand, right?) about ten yards above them, buoyed by the wind; but here in the eye of the storm, the trees and hunks of mud and really alarmingly-sized boulders circle around them like a jagged, stuttering cage.

"Is that – " Tony asks, voice faltering as he takes in Loki's huddled form, the awkward angle to his shoulders, the way his head is bowed. The spreading blood.

"Yes," Steve sighs, and manages to get a hand on Loki's shoulder – but only just.

Ironman touches down near them, close enough to step in if he's needed, but giving them space.

"Loki," Steve says again, hands on that broad, bony back. He feels Loki's body shudder beneath his hands, uncontrollable. Hurt.

"I don't," he starts, looking at Tony, who's gone around them to get a look at the god's face.

He goes still, motionless, and this is far more telling than anything else could be from a faceless suit of metal.

"Steve," Tony says, breathless and stunned, "god, Steve, he's – "

Steve leans in close, glances around over Loki's shoulder. Takes him in.

The blood is everywhere. It leaks from Loki's mouth in main force, covers his clothes, soaks into the fabric at his knees. It collects in the angles of his clavicles, the hollows of one elbow where the sleeve has been ripped away, smears over his cheeks clear to his ears. It coats his hair in tacky clumps, streams from his nose in small, cracked rivulets. Dries sticky and dark in the grooves of his fingernails, the delicate creases in the flesh of his hands.

And it flows steadily from the long, vertical gash that bisects him chest to navel, splits him open like an autopsy, slippery guts spilling into his arms even as he hunches over, gathers all the messy pieces of himself close.

"Hawkeye, Natasha," Steve says, voice cracking, "we need Thor. Now. Tony?"

Tony doesn't say anything, but the head of Ironman tilts up in acknowledgement.

"I need you to," only he doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say.

Steve can't get the image out of his mind – how the only clean things about Loki are the blank gems of his eyes, precious stones; the clear, perfect tears rinsing his cheeks, cutting solitary paths of light through the blood and dirt.

"We need to tranquilize him," Tony says suddenly. "He's been attacked. If his magic is going haywire because he's – because he's in agony and he can't control it," he says, voice uneven, scraping out of his throat. Because he can't say, dead.

"I don't have any tranquilizers," Steve says, frustrated.

"Knock him out, Cap." It's Hawkeye, listening through the comm. Steady, practical.

"He's a god," Steve says. "Can – will that work?"

"You've got a vibranium shield," Natasha says. "And I've called Thor about five times. And texted him, and emailed him."

"Try Jane again, if you haven't already. Then Darcy," Tony tells her.

"Got it," she says.

"Try not to kill him," Clint says through the comm, "when you bash him over the head."

Steve looks at Ironman's face, can't see Tony's eyes or the tight line of his mouth; they only exists in his mind's eye.

But Tony nods, gold and crimson facade scuffed and dirty, but glittering in the filtering sunlight like old gold, born anew every time the ever-shifting shadows from Loki's storm pass over his.

Steve raises his arm; he brings his shield down squarely on the back of Loki's head.

The wind surges.

Then, like an exhalation, a stale lungful of breath, it fades out. Trees fall from the sky, and stones, and bits of bark and someone's lawn chair and a catcher's mitt.

Steve doesn't realize until it's over, shield above his head as he cradles Loki's body, that Ironman is curled over him, bearing the brunt of it.

When it's done, the god limp in his arms, Steve stands. Loki is long, rangy, far too light for how he looms, tall and larger than life, when he's – awake.

"Can you," Steve asks, and Ironman reaches out, takes the mess of gore that is Thor's brother into his arms.

"He's not heavy," Tony says, voice flat. "He weighs five hundred pounds, how can – " he stops, sighs loudly. Gives in. "Get on, Cap. Let's – let's get this guy home."

* * *

"Who was with him when this happened," Steve asks the room at large. Tony, back in his street clothes, is having a complicated discussion with both Bruce and JARVIS about Asgardian physiology, going over the AI's measurements of Loki's vital signs.

"I was at SHIELD HQ," Natasha says. She's standing near the head of the bed, expression unreadable, staring at Loki's bone-pale face. They've cleaned him up as best they could, gone through the horrifying process of piecing together the mess of his insides as guided by JARVIS; Bruce took care of the brunt of it, aided by Natasha's steady hands. Tony had left the room, lead out by Clint, both green around the edges; Steve had forced himself to stay, shaken to his core by the thought that even gods can be made to suffer.

"I was on the range," Clint supplies, referring to the stretch of land behind the mansion where he's set up archery targets. He looks irritated. "I didn't even see him leave."

"Bruce?" Steve asks, getting speculative looks from both the physicist and Tony.

"I was asleep," Bruce sighs, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The motion tilts up his glasses, loosens them. Makes him look frail and groundless. "Stoned out of my mind. An earthquake wouldn't have woken me up."

"Maybe we should cut back on that," Tony mentions. He has the grace to look guilty.

"Probably, yeah," Bruce says. "It was a nice thought, Tony. Things were going so well."

"Except for the bits when you were naked," Clint grins, and Bruce rolls his eyes.

"Shut up," Natasha says warmly – as warm as she ever gets, which isn't, really. "You loved it."

Clint makes a kind of choked sound, and Natasha looks smug. In her own way.

Steve watches Loki's prone form for a long time. Eventually some of what JARVIS says filters through:

"Internal hemorrhaging, fractured ribs, massive blood loss and multiple lacerations on both intestines as well as the stomach and liver," and Steve glances up at the screen where a real-time anatomical chart is flashing all over with approximations of the damage. This is all in addition to the gaping holes they've already managed to stitch up. After tucking his guts back inside.

"Should we – get a surgeon in here?" Steve tries, because he hates inactivity, hates knowing there's nothing he can do once he hits the wall of it's-out-of-our-hands. Just another thing about this life he can't help, or change, or fix. Just another way he's failed someone.

Bruce looks up at him pensively. "They would have no better idea than us, I think," he says. "I don't know what human doctors could do that we haven't already. And Tony's equipment is state of the art."

"Designed it myself," Tony mutters, a half-hearted attempt at vanity. "It's the most advanced – uh – Asgardian monitoring system on the planet."

Steve wishes Asgard would stop sending all their princes to him. He's doing a terrible job keeping them safe. An image of Thor, twisted and punctured and bloody, suspended in the air like a ragdoll on hooks, floods his mind; Loki, in a hunched, red mass hasn't left.

"He's still bleeding, Steve," Natasha says, "and he's still breathing. So he's still alive."

"I'll call Fury," Clint volunteers. Steve looks at him in surprise, along with Tony and Bruce. Natasha never looks surprised, so her expression is one of only vague interest. "What? No one else wants to." His lips are white as he leaves the room, and Steve can't blame him.

It's bad enough to have to sustain such injuries; but to continue suffering through them? It's unbearable. Steve's never thought of godhood as a hardship before. He's never really thought of it at all, but – it can't be glory and festhalls all the time, he supposes.

But they probably don't ever let you die. The thought, unbidden, pools low in his lungs, like loss, like absolution denied.

"Cap, can I talk to you for a minute?" Tony asks, his bare fingertips falling away from the screen. He heads toward the door without waiting for a reply.

"Yeah – that' s fine. Natasha?"

"Bruce and I will keep watch," she tells him, "for all the good it does."

"I'll keep monitoring his vitals. I don't know how these guys work, but – he's not improving. His body isn't magically healing." He glances at the stats, thoughtful, his glasses flashing sharp reflections in miniature. "But he isn't getting worse at the moment. Which is probably a good sign, all things considered."

"Okay," Steve says. "That's – okay."

Tony leads him from the room, and there's a hot, desperate part of Steve that believes, on a fundamental, irascible level, that he'll never be able to save anyone. That he'll respect and trust people for the rest of his life, to take care of themselves and to stay safe, only it will be forever misplaced; they'll end up dying. Maybe not the first time, or the eighth, or the twenty-seventh: but one day he's not going to make it. One day he'll miss Bucky's hand by degrees, or his date with Peggy by decades.

One day he'll close the portal too soon for Tony to fall through, to come back down to Earth.

It makes him sick to his bones, makes him feel dry and brittle, to think that he'll always be a failure in the most ultimate sense. Just because you save someone a hundred times doesn't mean you can save them again.

"Oh," Steve says, surprised, when he realizes they're in Tony's room. "What – ?"

"Change out of your costume," Tony says, lips twisted in a small grimace. "Put some real-people clothes on, preferably something that isn't covered in the blood of Norse gods." It's true; Steve's a mess. "And – if you can manage – I'd fucking love it if you'd stop looking like someone murdered your dog."

"I never had a dog," Steve says, distracted and troubled. "I was allergic."

Tony stares at him quietly, then drags a pair of green and black and white pajama pants, plaid, out of his top drawer. He throws these onto his bed with an obscure band t-shirt. Then he says, somewhat stiffly, "Loki's not – one of us. He may never be. He's not even a good guy yet, he's just a guy. Whatever happened to him sucks, but."

"What?" Steve asks tiredly, sinking down onto the bed. "I wasn't think about Loki, Tony."

Tony looks like he's going to say something else, but visibly changes tack. He reaches over and starts to tug at Steve's hood.

"I've put a dense, flexible polymer plate between the layers of fabric," Tony is saying, sliding his hands beneath the blue jacket, fumbling at the blood-spattered fastenings. "Lightweight, overlapping. It'll stop bullets without weighing you down. Won't shatter on impact, will move with you but retain its shape." His fingers skid over Steve's shoulders, dip beneath his arms. "I had to leave some places open, though, for mobility. I meant to brief you earlier, but," he trails off.

Tony's close, warm, and Steve fixes his eyes on the muted glow of the arc reactor. "Right," he says, and reaches his hands out. Trails his gloved fingertips over Tony's bare hips where his t-shirt has shifted, where is belly shows.

"So you should have full range of motion – did you notice? – but please, please don't get shot or stabbed in your armpits. Or groin, or the backs of your knees or the inside of your elbows." He trails his fingers over each of these places in turn, unstrapping, unbelting, unzipping as he goes. "You'll be more than formidable against a head-on attack. Just don't let anyone sneak up on you."

Tony's voice has dropped steadily until it's just a breathy whisper, suspended between them in the air. Steve shifts, allows himself to be undressed, to be pushed back into the covers by the heat of Tony's palm on his chest.

Allows his boots, his utility pants, his boxers to be slid off one by one until he's bare.

"I'll be right back," Tony whispers, dropping a chaste kiss on Steve's forehead. "Don't move."

Steve loses time. He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows there's an arm under his back, a warm wash cloth sopping up the dried blood that soaked through his uniform onto his arms and abdomen.

"Nngh," he mumbles coherently. "Tony?"

"Shh," Tony says. "Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Time's it?" Steve asks, sighing. He hadn't meant to fall asleep for the five minutes it took Tony to come back.

"About eleven." Fifteen minutes, then.

"Is Loki – "

"Still breathing. Bleeding, not so much."

"Good." Steve shifts onto his side, and the sheets feel wonderful against his bare skin, the angle of his hip, the swell of his butt. He props himself up a bit, rests his head in his hand, and Tony looks pained.

"You should put these on," he says, motioning to the pajamas. "I have work to do, and I will never leave this room if you don't."

Steve's cock swells, jumps slightly at the heavy want in Tony's voice; judging by the way his eyes cloud over, Steve can only assume he notices.

But, ever focused on the task at hand, Steve says, "What kind of work? What needs to be done, I can – "

"You can stay right here and rest," Tony says in tones that brook no argument. Then, softer, "And maybe let me look at you for a little while."

"I – " Steve fumbles his words, growing warm beneath Tony's gaze and, presently, his touch.

His hands are everywhere, feather-light over Steve's shoulders and ribs, a nail catching lightly at his nipple, the line of a thumb sinking into the muscular ridges of Steve's hip, his thigh, the five-finger grooves of his rib cage.

"Tony," Steve gasps as the man climbs on top of him, fully-clothed down to his Wolverine socks, buries his face in Steve's throat and breathes him in.

"Gimme a minute," he says, voice muffled, arms stealing around Steve's waist. Steve shifts, curls his body, twines his limbs comfortably through Tony's.

Distantly, there's the clash and bang of thunder. "That'll be Thor. Fury got a hold of him about ten minute ago," Tony murmurs.

"Has he been told?"

"Yeah," Tony says. Shifts closer. "But it isn't going to be – it's not the same, hearing about it and then seeing it."

"No," Steve agrees sadly. "It's not"

"Okay," Tony says, withdrawing his arms and legs, getting some distance between the two of them. "Right. So I'm going to tuck you in – "

"I'm not a kid, Tony, jeez – "

"I'm going to _tuck you in_," Tony repeats firmly, yanking the covers out from under Steve's body, fluffing them up with air and then bundling them around him. "Since you refuse to be any kind of decent and cover up this festival of carnality."

"Festiv – ugh, Tony, shut _up_," he says, but he can't get the smile off his face.

"So I'm going to have JARVIS run some more tests, try to figure out who did this to our less-than-friendly friend, less-than-matey mate, less-than-allied ally – "

"You're getting stuck in a loop again. You are unstable and require rest."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Anyway, hopefully between the two of us we can figure out a course of action. I'll let you know what we come up with."

"It is both a comfort and a joy," Steve says dryly, "to know your co-conspirator is a program you created."

Tony smiles brightly, preening; but then it fades into something almost tender. "I won't be up all night," he says seriously. "Just – give me an hour, and I'll come back and climb into bed with you and we'll both get some sleep, okay?"

Something tugs at the back of Steve's mind, right up there with his urge to do something productive, to hunt down whoever got the jump on one of his – Avengers-in-training. Then it clicks, and he asks hesitantly:

"Tony. Isn't Pepper – ?"

Tony's mouth quirks sadly to one side. "She left for Cali earlier tonight. Has a meeting with the VP of LA's branch. Won't be back until Sunday."

Steve thinks about their date, their I'll-be-gone-all-week date that Tony'd missed. To be with Steve. By accident or design, it makes him feel like shit; makes guilt and a kind of sharp, empathetic loneliness coil together in his gut, slick and accusing and awful.

"I'm really the worst boyfriend ever," Tony whispers, voice rough. "It's no wonder you don't want to date me."

Steve reaches for him, takes his hand. Squeezes. "I'll see you in an hour, Tony."

"Right. That's – right," he says, and presses Steve's hand to his mouth. "An hour."

* * *

It's about four in the morning when Steve wakes up, and the bed is still empty. He throws on the clothes Tony left out, the shirt a bit too tight in the shoulders and chest, the pants too loose in the waist. He cinches them up with the drawstring, thinks about going for a run. Wonders if he'd look ridiculous jogging in flannel pajamas.

He heads down to Tony's lab, but it's empty and the light's out; so, out of ideas, he goes to the room they're keeping Loki in.

The overhead light is off, and Steve hangs back because the bedside lamp is on the lowest setting. It illuminates the room in shadowy half-light, too dim to bear the weight of predawn gloom, to bright to offer solace and privacy.

Thor, his big, broad body slouched forward on itself, is seated near the bed. He's got one of Loki's hands in both of his. Has his head bowed.

At first Steve thinks Loki's still unconscious, and his heart clenches painfully because Thor is his _friend_, his comrade-in-arms. One of the people he feels he as the most in common with, Steve from the technologically deficient past, and Thor from a world so advanced that he may as well be.

But when Steve hears a dry rasp, a fragile bracelet of words, he realizes that Loki is, indeed, awake.

"You should have come _with _me," Thor says quietly. "How will father believe you are here to protect me when you are so desperately injured?"

"Thor," Loki whispers, voice dry as dust, "I _was_ protecting you."

"You must return to Asgard," Thor says, insists, like it's an argument they've been having for hours. "The healers will put you to rights, and then you can fight at my side once more. We can solve this as brothers in arms."

"No," Loki says, and Steve has to strain to hear him. "I will unleash these forces not upon our home. They almost – I could," he coughs, weak and rough and Thor seizes his shoulders, holds him through it. "It was all that I could do to keep them back."

"Father would be able to seal the portal, or Heimdall. These past few days with Jane – "

Loki makes a soft, complicated sound that Steve belatedly realizes is a snort, derisive, disdainful. He has turned his face away from his brother. "_Jane_," he hisses. "Your mortal woman?"

"Jealousy is unbecoming, my brother," Thor says, bemused, but with a gentleness to his tone.

"We are _not brothers_," Loki screams, but it comes out all wrong, cracked and heaving and distorted, and he's livid but he's in so much pain. It's written in every agonized line of his face, the rigid cant to his limbs, the way his torso curves in, fetal, helpless.

Steve raps gently on the doorframe, making his presence known, and both gods look up at him.

Thor's got heavy lines under his eyes, like he hasn't slept; and Loki is breathing shallowly, fingers twisting into the sheets.

"Steve," Thor says, unhappy and exhausted, but pleased to see him nonetheless. "It is good to find you in fair health, my friend. I am told you came to Loki's aid in my absence?" His face is pained; he does a bad job hiding it.

"We all did," Steve deflects, not thinking about how they found him, the weightlessness of Loki in his arms as he bled out. "I'm only relieved we got to him in time."

Thor nods absently, reaching out to smooth his hand through the dark, tangled mass of Loki's hair. Loki closes his eyes.

"Where were you?" Steve asks gently, and he's trying his hardest not to sound accusatory. "We couldn't find you, Thor."

Aggrieved, the golden-haired god raises his head, meets Steve's blue eyes with his own. "I was calling on the Lady Jane of Foster," he explains. "I had hoped to call upon her kind and gentle nature to assist with present matters. And in the great basins of the New Mexico, our mighty cell phones battled with valor and honor, yet could not overcome the brute strength and trickery of the service towers."

Thor went to see Jane, had poor reception. Steve fixes on the most pertinent information: "'Present matters'?"

Thor opens his mouth to speak, but looks unsure; he glances down at his brother instead..

Loki doesn't look at either of them, but after a moment he says: "A halfmoon ago, when we battled the Chitauri as they shifted forms."

"Yes," Steve says. Trepidation swirls in him like an illness, rises warm and bitter in the back of his throat.

Loki sighs. "In exchange for an army, I promised the tesseract – and I used it to create the portal that brought them here. I had a door, a key, and safe passage." He rests for a moment, his sheets rustling as he shifts in the quiet. "But they had a door, too."

Loki raises his hands, circles his slender fingers together over his chest

"It is how we communicated. And it was also their caveat, should I somehow fail to accomplish my end of the bargain." His voice goes cruel here, almost sarcastic; and he finally raises his eyes, meets Steve's gaze.

Steve feels a pulse shudder through him. It is several long moments before he recognizes it as fear.

"The door goes both ways," Steve whispers, surprised to find that his voice has gone low and soft.

"Precisely." Loki says. He shifts up a bit in his bed, hissing in pain, and Thor quickly moves to prop him up, to adjust his pillows. Leaves his hand on the back of Loki's neck until Loki bares his teeth and waves him off.

Then he continues: "With the power they gave me, I could protect myself from them. When Stark destroyed their ship, in that moment of weakness, I was able to seal their portal."

"And when I asked you if – if there any Chitauri on Earth," Steve says slowly, "you had to unseal it."

"Yes." Loki says simply. "To find me, they will claw their way through my body. When they have come, they will demand I take them to the tesseract."

Steve tries to conceptualize what it means to have some extraterrestrial being burst through your body. There is no combination of it that doesn't send cold, jittery knives of adrenaline through his belly, that doesn't horrify and alarm him.

Loki presses his lips together thoughtfully. "But they cannot come through when I am... damaged. It would kill me, and then they would have no gate at all. Their lead to the tesseract would disappear." Patiently, he studies his hands. "As it stands, they could get through – five, ten. Perhaps fifteen of their number while still I live."

Thor grits his teeth. "Loki," he says, fingers twisting together like he wants to reach out, to touch his brother, to make everything okay. Only he doesn't know what to do with his hands, doesn't know where he could hold on to his brother to make him stay.

"So I will remain like this for a time," Loki rasps, breath hitching. "And hopefully your – _Jane_ – can manage to seal this portal again. Perhaps destroy it entirely."

"Loki," Steve asks, struck with a terrible notion. Because if the Chitauri can only come through if Loki is already unharmed –

"Did you," he pauses, heart in his throat, " – did you do this to your_self_?"

He can't imagine it: Loki tearing up Central Park at night, as far away from crowds and buildings as he could get, burrowing into the only cluster of wilderness in the vast, sprawling populace of New York City. Keeping the damage contained.

Disemboweling himself on splintered, jagged tree trunks. Ripping his guts out of his belly until he was hardly conscious, until the very real consequences from the biggest mistake of his long life could start tearing their way through.

Thor stares at him, eyes wide and endlessly, achingly blue.

"There was not another way," Loki murmurs. "It would not have been my first choice, had I others from which to choose."


	6. Chapter 6

"Thor," Steve says quietly, resting his hand on a broad, hunched shoulder, "I'm going to need you to leave the room for a couple of minutes."

The god glances up at him, confusion written plainly on his honest face; it is closely followed by defiance. "Loki is in my care! I will not leave him."

"I need to speak with him in private." Steve says firmly, using his Captain voice.

Thor looks less adamant, but does not give in. "Whatever words you have with my brother may be spoken before me as well."

"I'm going to ask him some questions," Steve says. "They're going to upset you."

Thor firms his jaw. Steve purses his lips.

Loki watches them silently, and after a moment he says, "Thor. Leave us."

Something too quick to name clouds Thor's face, something like hurt or resignation or – shame. Guilt. Something in pieces that is presently blow away by anger. "You would command me?" He growls, standing in a rush. "I am not your minion to order about as you please! I am your equal – " he rages.

"Would that you were," Loki says stiffly. "We would not be half so troubled."

Thor stares at him; then his face twists, and he storms out of the room without another word.

Loki leans back, his face splitting into a grimace of pain, and Steve realizes he was hiding the greater part of his discomfort; has probably been doing so for hours.

"That was cruel." Steve says, taking the seat that Thor has vacated. "He's only worried about you."

"It is cruel to speak truths?" Loki asks. His eyes are set deep in his face, hollowed and heavy with exhaustion and injury.

"Even if the words you use are true," Steve says simply, "it is still a lie when you deliberately let him believe the wrong thing."

The ghost of a smile colors Loki's face. "You are a clever man, Captain America."

"I'm really not," Steve says. "I just call it like I see it." Something twists inside his chest at the thought of Loki allowing Thor to believe he's – less, somehow, than Loki is. When, very clearly, he meant just the opposite.

He wonders if these two will ever actually _look_ at each other. Or if they'll always have this asynchronicity between them, heavy with emotion and intent, but forever at a disconnect.

"You had questions for me?" Loki asks, folding his hands delicately.

"I do." Steve affirms. "Please answer honestly."

Loki smiles again, and this time it's – decidedly less nice.

"Can – can anyone from your home help you?"

"No." Loki says. "Heimdall was our own portal keeper, but he could only activate it. He could hope to close the portal in my chest the way he once closed the Bifröst, of course – by shoving his sword into it – but I don't find that entirely agreeable for obvious reasons."

"Of course," Steve says, his tentative optimism draining out. "And – Odin?"

"He may have that power," Loki says. "But he is weakened by grief. And he has forgiven me not."

"You're family," Steve insists. "He wouldn't let you die."

"Death comes on a separate palette for an Asgardian," Loki says. "And I am not family in the sense that I would – " he cuts himself off, a mixture of anger and misery naked on his face for half a moment. Then it clears. "In the sense that I would be mourned."

No, Steve thinks. You are exactly family in that sense. Thor mourned for you even as he battled against you.

He mourns for you now, even as he battles beside you.

"Regardless, I will not be killed by this," Loki continues. "I will only suffer. The – the Allfather would find these circumstances a suitable addition to my penance."

Steve swallows, furious and powerless, because Loki is so many shades of gray that it makes him dizzy – but no one should be penalized for service to others, regardless of past crimes. As far as Steve is concerned, right and wrong is not a balancing act. You can't erase your sins with the good that you do – you can only hope you leave the world a little better in spite of them.

He will never make the mistake of believing Loki is a changed being, that he will someday become innately good. But neither will he undervalue the lives he might someday save, the people he can protect with his awesome power. It is something he can do as long as he is living.

Because you take your punishments for your sins, and your rewards for your acts of charity, and even monsters can do good in this world.

"What was the catalyst for the portal opening?" Steve asks frankly. "And will you lose control of your magic again?"

"They are all of them chipping away at me," Loki replies. "It was only a matter of time."

There's something inconstant about this, so Steve tries: "You told Thor days ago, perhaps earlier. Because he went to Jane to get you help."

Loki's lips skin back from his teeth before he can stop himself. "Yes," he forces out. "So I did, and so he did."

"Did you know you were... running out of time?"

Loki sits up, the blankets falling away from him. His bare arms brace against the mattress, and his lean chest curves in, bandaged carefully. There are a few spots of blood leaking through from the other side.

"Loki," Steve says, leaning forward as if to push him back down, but Loki's long, wiry fingers wrap around Steve's wrist. His grip is so tight that Steve imagines he can feel his bones creak.

"What are you trying to _ask_ me," he spits, his voice ragged and edged.

"Why are you angry?" Steve asks calmly.

Loki, close and with a sharp hold on him, leans closer still. A black ferocity passes over his face like a shadow; and then he allows Steve to push him back down onto the bed.

"We need to change these." Steve nods to the bandages, trying to quell the sick twist in his stomach as he looks on.

"My brother is many things," Loki says, and for all his talk about not being – family – the word still seems to slip out of him from time to time. It hangs, suspended and defiant, in the air between them. "But clever, as you may have noted, he is not." After a brief pause, he adds, "Neither is he intuitive. Nor of malicious intent."

Steve tries, because with Loki it's – it's about sifting through the discordant facts, extricating the one secret he's trying to keep hidden, bundled up in a mess of backwards-facing honesty. It's frustrating and convoluted, and Steve takes his time thinking about it.

And then he asks, "Did you tell him not to visit Jane?"

"Of course I did," Loki snarls.

"Without insulting her?"

Loki grits his teeth, but all his fury is directed inward. He softens after a moment, and his voice is soft, even – _sad_. A kind of sadness Steve can't pin down, familiar though it seems. "Of course not."

When Loki says nothing else, Steve tries: "Have you thought about telling him you were jealous?"

Startled, Loki's eyes flare; wide and open, vulnerable and crystalline. Then they snap onto Steve's with an intensity he can almost feel.

"Is this your function, _Captain America_," Loki says acidly when he gets ahold of himself. "To handle the emotional turmoil of your damaged party of heroes?"

"My function, Loki," Steve says patiently, "is to protect my team and my city. What I need to know," and he must tread carefully here: Loki is volatile, Loki is gravely injured, and Loki wears his rage like a second spirit. He is also more damaged than any of them. "Is whether or not you represent a danger to yourself or others."

Loki's mouth is a thin white line, and his eyes are haunted. "It has taken – much of my concentration these past weeks," he admits, "to maintain the complex magics I've cast on my – on the portal."

"And Thor?" Steve asks gently.

"Was a distraction." Loki stares at his hands, and Steve thinks – That's it. That's what this is.

Steve knows what self-loathing looks like, that exact flavor of shame and frustration that comes from never measuring up; he used to see it in the mirror every single day.

"And when they started to come through," Loki says, "I was – it," he stops, runs his tongue over his teeth in contemplation, like he's measuring each word to get it exactly right. Like he doesn't want to give away an ounce more than he has to. "It felt – like cold water, leaking into my chest. And then my magic was leaking out of my hands, out of my mouth, like a cracked dam." He sighs, shoving the back of his wrist over his mouth absently. "It was all I could do. To isolate myself before the dam burst."

Steve stands slowly, wanders over to the window and glances outside. The sky is starting to turn, the fierce, bright fan of morning sunlight edging up beyond the sprawling metropolis of this strange city, new and achingly familiar at once. He thinks about Loki's back, curled in on itself; thinks about blood and a body in shreds, kept separate, cordoned off. Alone.

He returns to his chair, haltingly. Rests his hand on the back instead of sitting down again. Refuses to admit he's pacing.

"Were you conscious," he hears himself ask, "when we found you?"

"Physically," Loki answers dully, "I must have been."

Okay, Steve tries to say, but can't. His throat his tight. But he does manage to get out, "Thank you, Loki. I'll – send a nurse in or something to change your bandages."

"How thoughtful, Captain America," Loki says, that same specter-smile crossing his face once more.

Steve makes it to the doorway before turning back. "And just so we're clear," he says firmly, "You are not a hero. You will never be a hero."

Before Loki can fully register his words, before his face can school itself back into something cold and poisonous – which, very slowly, Steve is coming to recognize as the god's own personal brand of self-preservation – he adds: "But most of us aren't."

Adds, "And you can call me Steve." And waits.

After a handful of heavy, thoughtful moments, Loki looks as though he has comes to some internal decision. He says carefully, "If you could please – send Thor back. Here." He sounds unsure, wary. But earnest. "I would – I would have words with him."

Steve smiles. It's small, tired, but wholly sincere. "Sure thing."

* * *

He finds Tony in the kitchen, eyes red and raw, mainlining coffee.

"Hi," he says, leaning against the counter.

"Hi," Tony echoes, and then glances up sharply. "Steve! Steve, I," he mumbles, making a short, abortive movement where he's trying to get closer to Steve, but also apparently trying to dump his coffee all over the floor.

Steve reaches out, steadies his hands. Guides the mug back to the counter.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, the corner of his mouth pulled down. "I know I said I'd be back, but I just – I got caught up at the Tower, and I thought I might as well finish it, only there was a compatibility problem with the newest version of JARVIS and the skeleton version I've got running, and I just –"

Steve blinks. "Why are you – Tony, do you think I'm _mad_?" He asks, eyebrows raised.

"Well," Tony says, looking at Steve like he's walking into a trap. "Well, yes."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "You pull all-nighters all the time."

Tony stares at him like he's seeing him for the first time, which would make Steve uncomfortable, except that it's just about five in the morning and Tony hasn't slept.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Yeah, I do." He smiles, crooked and unassuming, and Steve reaches over and hooks his arm through Tony's, pulls him close, bumps their cheeks together. He doesn't mean to do any of these things, he just – he's getting used to _having_ Tony, and they aren't even okay yet. They're just two people alone in a kitchen, who happen to be in love with each other. Who happen to be keeping it a secret.

"Mmm," Tony says against his mouth, because yeah – he's tilting his head back, opening for Steve, pressing his tongue carefully inside. He tastes like coffee with the tacky aftertaste of sugar. Smells warm, smells like the bed Steve slept in last night.

"We're all moving into the shiny new Avengers Tower today," he says. "I've got it all set up, we can put Loki on Bruce's level for the time being until he's past the violent freak-out stage, I have –"

"About that," Steve says, and somehow manages to pull back enough to see a world outside of Tony.

"About Loki?" Tony asks.

"Yeah," Steve says, and tells him.

Tony doesn't say anything for awhile, just falls back against the counter and taps out a pattern with his fingertips, thinking and thinking, fidgeting and kicking his bare heel back against the wood panelling until eventually he surfaces.

"I think I need to get some sleep," he mutters. "There's a connection somewhere, but I'm having a hard time getting the ends together."

"I think that'd be for the best," Steve says with a small smile.

"Fine, fine," Tony says, arms thrown up and back behind his head in a stretch as he heads toward his bedroom. He pauses when he realizes Steve isn't following.

"You coming or what?" He asks, eyebrows raised, and – god, Steve would love nothing better. Tony's – wired with caffeine and sugar, alternately sharp with energy around the edges and also soft with exhaustion. His eyes are bloodshot, sleepy, but a little desperate as they rake over Steve's body, and –

Oh, hell. He's really just, just not one to tell Tony no.

When they're back in Tony's room, Steve closes the door behind them; and when he turns around, Tony's fingers are locking onto his wrists, slamming them above Steve's head, and then – Tony's kissing him. It's different than the slow, sweet kiss in the kitchen; it's messy, fierce, wet and full of teeth.

"Tony," he mumbles, but Tony just presses his pelvis hard against Steve's hips, and – and flannel pajama pants do really embarrassing things to erections, like make them obvious and obscene.

"Shh," Tony says, and Steve melts back into the wall, lets Tony lead. Lets him sink against Steve's body like it's a fucking tourist destination, like it's a trip he's been looking forward to for months.

"Hey," Steve whispers quietly against the side of his mouth, "Who – did you make the bed?"

"Mmm? Oh," Tony mumbles, slipping his arms around Steve's waist and just – just hugging him, tight and close. Presses his face into Steve's neck, rubs a stubbled cheek against his shoulder like a cat. "Yeah, about – um – a half hour ago or. Something, I dunno. You weren't here, so."

Steve lets his arms fall over Tony's, brushes his mouth against eyelids at half-mast. "You should lay down," he says, and he can't help it, can't help ghosting his lips over the shell of Tony's ear. Can't help pressing a bit closer, even though Tony should probably be going to bed for sleep, not sex.

Tony shivers, fingers knotting in Steve's borrowed t-shirt. He licks his lips, glances at the bed. "So – so you should help me unmake this," he says. "Like. Right now."

Steve thinks about protesting, thinks about insisting; thinks about going for that run, about making Tony get some rest. About doing something that isn't fucking Tony goddamn Stark who, by the way, is still in a committed relationship with someone else. Someone Steve happens to admire and respect.

Because Steve is clearly a man of principle who sticks to his guns, he says softly: "Whatever you wanna do," and Tony just lights up. Maniacal, maybe, but lovely all the same.

So Tony tugs him down onto the bed, sort of slithers over him, fumbles with his clothes and hooks his fingers into Steve's hips, squeezes at his sides and bites down gently on his collar bone.

"So what do you think about," he asks, tentative and – and sort of palming Steve's lower back, slipping his pinky beneath the fabric of his pants. Pressing it into his tailbone, testing.

"You mean – " Steve starts, feeling flushed through his chest and abdomen, blood pooling heavy and hot between his legs. He licks his lips, leans up and whispers, "You want to fuck me, Tony?" It's hot and filthy, a blatant invitation, and Steve feels – well, he feels a bit silly.

But Tony's eyes dilate and his breathing changes, his hands go stiff where they're holding on to him, and Steve feels – just really, ridiculously sexy. The way Tony's looking at him, like there isn't anything in the world he'd rather be doing.

"I – that's," he stutters, at a loss. "Yes, jesus christ, Steve, if it's okay – yeah, I – I'm just – " he reaches clumsily over the pillows, rattles around in the bedside table until he rolls back over, a sort of army-crawl, lube and condom in hand.

"I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself," Steve laughs, easy, and it's just. It's wonderful, it's perfect, Tony's skittish like Steve's giving him a gift, like he's trying to hide how much he wants it. "We've still got our clothes on. Bed's still made."

Tony snorts, rolls his eyes. Relaxes just a bit. "I shall endeavor to remedy that," he says, and maybe he tugs a bit too hard in his haste, and maybe their legs get tangled together, but it's all wash at the end of the day. Because then they're laid out against each other, all naked angles and warmth, and Tony's kissing him again, quick but deep, before he slides a hand down Steve's abdomen. "Roll over, baby," he says, voice hoarse. Then: "Let me," only he doesn't finish it; the words just fade out in the air.

Baby, he called me Baby, is all Steve can think when he's on his hands and knees, thighs parted, and Tony's working a slick finger inside.

"Goddamn," Tony murmurs against the base of Steve's neck, telling secrets to the jut of his spine, "you're so tight, how long's it been since," and Steve is biting his lip to keep quiet, is reigning in his moans so they slip out as harsh, voiceless pants.

"It's," Steve tries, but Tony's got these fingers, right, these incredibly dextrous hands that he works with _every single day_, calloused and practiced and just – just hitting all the right spots, and Steve's dick is smearing precome all over the sheets, his hips bucking forward in fits and starts for that little bit of friction against the head, and then Tony slides in a second finger and he almost loses his _mind_ –

– but then Tony stops, his other hand warm on Steve's thigh, and he asks again, "Steve. Steve, how long has it been?"

"Tony, you – "

"Answer me." There's a strange edge to his voice, almost distant, drawn, and Steve glances over his shoulder.

Tony's watching him soberly, all traces of his caffeine/sugar high vanished for the time being.

Steve sighs through his nose. "To be perfectly honest? It – well, it hasn't been."

Tony starts like he's been burned, withdraws his fingers all at once and Steve growls with frustration, aching for the loss of him, so turned on that it _hurts_, he just needs –

"Okay," Tony says, sitting back on his heels, his dick obtrusive and heavy, angled up from his body. "We're – we have to fucking talk about this." He sounds miserable, and as frustrated as Steve feels.

"No," Steve says. "No, we really don't. We can talk after. Right now you're going to fuck me, Stark." He commands, voice hard, and – and Tony's cock jumps again, sort of twitches, and Steve thinks, Oh. _Oh_.

He repeats, very deliberately, in his Captain America voice: "You're going to _fuck_ me, Stark."

"Steve," Tony says, voice rough and uneven, faltering. "I can't be – how can – you're," he says.

" You're going to shove my legs apart," Steve says, and he sort of arches his back, shifts so that his hands are on the wall, sticks his ass out. Puts himself on display like a piece of meat, flushed red and embarrassed and – and really, impossibly aroused. It bursts through him in waves, with his pulse, makes him sweat and pant, makes him want to beg. "And you're going to grab me by the hips, so hard you leave _bruises_."

"_Fuck_," Tony whines wretchedly.

"You're going to bite down on my shoulder when you come, to keep from screaming," Steve goes on, merciless. "And you're going to make me _bleed_, and I'll fucking love it. I really will."

Something snaps, finally, because Tony just manhandles him like he's a rentboy, doesn't even finish stretching him out, just lines himself up with Steve's ass. Presses in the tip until Steve gasps.

"You and I," Tony hisses into his ear, "are going to have _words_ after this," and then, all at once, he fucks into Steve in one long, unrelenting stroke. He doesn't take his time, just shoves in hard and fast, brutal, until there's nowhere left to go.

Steve bites back a scream, can't help it; it _hurts_, like he's overfilled, like he'll never be able to breathe again. Above and behind him, Tony's holding his breath too, and his nails are leaving deep crescents in Steve's sides, and they're both just – just trying to adjust, to handle it.

"You're," Tony gasps, "you're so fucking tight, I can't – Steve, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have," he babbles, his fingers splaying over Steve's lower back, reverent, consoling. "I. I just."

"No," Steve grinds out, forcing his body to relax. It's hard at first, but then – slowly, slowly – he gets used to the feeling. Accepts it, goes with it. "Just – give me a minute. And when I tell you, you're gonna start moving."

"Steve," Tony whispers, "I don't think – I can't hurt you, I."

"You won't," Steve says, glad Tony can't see his face. "You aren't." He makes himself inhale, takes his time until it becomes bearable. And then he parts his thighs just that little bit more, bucks back experimentally.

"Oh god," Tony moans. "Oh, fuck, _Steve_."

"Move," Steve says.

"Are you sure – I don't, I, I," Tony whispers, fingers curling around Steve's hips like they're handles, like they're made for this.

"_Move_," Steve growls, commanding and sure. "I'm Captain _America_, a goddamn _super soldier_. You're not going to hurt me, Tony. So – fucking – _move_."

Tony moves.

It takes them a minute to build a rhythm, and longer before the sensations Steve feels can actually be considered pleasurable; but presently the pain fades to a dull background element, until suddenly, between one moment and the next, it isn't there at all. And something else builds in its place, something beautiful and powerful, something precious and much larger than Steve.

It swallows his world, sets fires behind his eyes, and he barely has the presence of mind to bite down on Tony's pillow to keep quiet.

"Your filthy fucking mouth," Tony is saying, "I can't believe they let you kiss babies with that mouth, oh my god," and he reaches around, gets a hold on Steve's cock, fucks into him as Steve fucks into his hand.

It doesn't take long; Tony doesn't have the stamina that Steve has, naturally, but his hands are devilish and quick, and the way he's angling his thrusts, it's – it's too much, and then he shifts direction just a bit, just before he comes, and that really overloads Steve, sends him off the edge completely.

He can't hold it in, can't hold back, and Tony's moaning in his ear, rough and loud and Steve is goes blind with the force of his orgasm, ripping through his body, breaking him apart.

When he comes to, Tony is in a boneless heap on top of him and JARVIS has dimmed the panels over the windows to block out the light; but the clock reads seven-thirteen, and Steve is lying in a patch of dry ejaculate.

He shifts a bit, and – and Tony, asleep, mumbles something incomprehensible. He's fallen asleep still inside Steve, soft, and it's takes a bit of maneuvering to disconnect without waking him.

Steve ties off the condom, pitches it, and fumbles his way to the bathroom to get a damp towel.

He's just finished cleaning them up as best he can when Tony reaches out, catches his hand.

"Going," he mumbles, eyes closed.

"Stark Tower," he replies fondly, allowing himself to be pulled down onto the bed. Tony curls around him like an octopus. "Or, Avengers Tower, I guess."

"Why. 'S nicer here."

"Someone gave me an entire floor to myself," Steve says softly, carding his fingers through Tony's hair. "I figured I'd go and have a look, maybe arrange some furniture. Make myself at home."

"Mm. 'S taken care of, I have," Tony murmurs, beautiful meaningless syllables, and after a minute or two it's clear he's sound asleep. Steve is – Steve feels – whatever this is, it's. It's just so _much_, so much it hurts.

Steve gathers him carefully into his arms, pulls the covers back with his foot. Then he tucks Tony in, just like Tony'd done for him the night before.

"Sweet dreams," he says quietly, and kisses Tony's temple. Seeing him like this – asleep, vulnerable, in the bed where they'd just – _been_ together. It makes Steve's breath catch, tangle up in his lungs. It makes him feel like, if he had this, he could be happy one day.

He tries to figure out a way to do that, be that, without hurting someone else in the process. Wrestles with the feeling, disjointed and malformed by guilt. Tries to determine at what point the selfish desire for joy in your life makes you garbage as a human being.

* * *

Clint's in the kitchen, in his boxers, rifling through the refrigerator when Steve passes through.

"Hey," Steve says, thinking a little bit about breakfast.

"Oh," Clint says, straightening, and he looks – uncomfortable isn't exactly the word, though wary might be more accurate. He's got a loaf of bread and some eggs and a fork in his arms, balanced against his bare chest, and he's looking at Steve like he's a stranger.

"Are you – making French toast?" Steve asks politely.

"No, I – " He glances down at the food. "Ah, yes. Yeah. It looks like I am." He sets the stuff on the counter, glances at it like he's trying to figure out how all the pieces fit, and then digs around for the milk.

"Is everything – ?" Steve starts to ask, and Clint stands up very straight.

"It's fine, it happens," he says quickly. "It's not a problem. Nice shorts, by the way."

"What?"

"What?" Clint echoes.

Steve's wearing a pair of red and yellow jogging shorts he'd stolen from Tony's dresser drawer, and maybe they're a bit tight, but he didn't think it was particularly noticeable when he'd put them on.

"If you're making coffee," Natasha yawns, coming around the corner, "please make it strong. Also black. I feel like I haven't slept at – " she stops, blinking, when she sees Steve.

Then she looks smug.

"Uh," Steve says, because Natasha's wearing a t-shirt and – not much else. It's distracting, because Natasha is a woman of discerning taste and beauty, and also she can do horrifying things to you with her bare hands. "Were you guys up late?"

They share a look, one of those expressionless jobs that seem to be endlessly communicative and articulate, whole worlds of informative conversation that are so far over Steve's head that he doesn't even try.

He thinks it'd be nice, though. To be so connected to another person.

"Yes, Steve," Natasha says eventually. "Thor came in very late to relieve us."

"And after we passed out in one of the guest bedrooms," Clint continues, and – and _smirks_, "we had some trouble staying asleep."

"I see," Steve says, who really, really doesn't.

They both watch him silently.

"So I'm – going to go for a run," he tells them awkwardly, and tries not to look at Natasha's bare thighs or Clint's compact chest. It's difficult not to, when they're staring him down with – with outright _predatory_ eyes.

"Sure," Clint says agreeably, leaning back with his elbows on the counter.

"Try not to kiss any babies," Natasha says, voice alarmingly neutral, " with that filthy fucking mouth."

The bottom drops out of Steve's stomach, and the blood drains from his face.

Clint's smirk splits into an all-out grin, though his cheeks are faintly pink.

"I," Steve stammers, heart racing, "I can – it –"

"You don't have to explain yourself," Natasha tells him very seriously. "I think we've pretty much got it"

Half of Steve wants to argue his case; he wants to tell them how Tony is insufferable and overwhelming, how he thinks a mile a minute but slows down to explain things like Paypal and Netflix. How he dropped in during Loki's assault on New York and angled an energy blast off of Steve's shield and hit some alien, how they work in tandem like distant, moving parts that occasionally come together in beautiful synergy.

A very large part of this half wants to talk about all the tiny faces Tony makes, how hard it is to figure him out; maybe go on about his mouth or how the Avengers are his goddamn family and he'd do _any_thing –

Steve cuts himself short, gets a hold on his thoughts. "Right," he sighs. "I'm sorry. It's not – it wasn't – professional," is the word he finally settles on.

Clint is still watching him, thoughtful and – unsure. Natasha looks unimpressed.

"We need to be able to work together," Clint says, "so make sure this doesn't fuck anything up."

"Working on that," Steve assures him, when really that's – well, Tony's department.

Natasha thins her full lips. "Figure it out quickly. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Ms. Potts. I will only stay silent on this matter for so long." Going, as always, straight for the vital points. Conversationally, Steve feels like he's bleeding out.

"Soon," Steve says. Thinks, I really hope it's soon.

* * *

As he leaves the kitchen, he hears Natasha say quietly, "Sorry, Clint. We should've moved in earlier."

"Don't worry about it, Nat," he says, voice soft and intimate and a little sweet. "It wasn't necessary. It just would've been nice."

"Don't I fucking know it," she laughs.

* * *

The Tower is probably a twenty-five minute drive from Stark Manor in light traffic on city streets, and Steve runs it in about an hour. He's sweaty, overheated from the distant sun and the warm day and the ten miles he just put in, and he's at the front entrance before he realizes he doesn't have anything on him – no keys, no wallet, not even his phone. He pats his shorts reflexively, even though they don't have pockets.

The building is shiny and new-looking, still a bit ugly if Steve is very honest with himself, but that's only because he's still getting a taste for twenty-first century architecture. All the construction debris has been cleared away, but it doesn't look like there's anyone actually inside yet.

Last the, it'd just opened for Tony, since Tony was some kind of technological holy man with all things electric rushing to do his bidding.

Steve's standing outside the tinted glass doors, thinking about knocking or – or asking someone to borrow their cell, when he notices a very expensive-looking pad beneath a clear plastic shield.

This is also about when he notices there are no visible locks or handles on the door.

With a slight smile, Steve lifts the shield and palms the smooth, gray rectangle.

The doors open soundlessly, the lights go up – about fifty percent, which Steve greatly appreciates; bright lights don't always agree with his enhanced vision – and JARVIS says, "Welcome home, Captain Rogers."

It sends a flood of warmth through his chest, liquid pleasure, full and fluid like he'll overflow with it. It makes him think of his grandmother's homemade pie, his mother's cool hands when he was sick, before she died; it makes him think of Tony, warm and dreaming in the bed where Steve has left him. "Thank you, JARVIS. And you can call me Steve."

"Would you like me to direct you to your quarters, Steve?"

"I think I've got it," Steve replies, and takes his time going through the lobby. Just like with his first visit, everything is pristine, unused; the floor smells faintly of lemon and wax, and there isn't a hint of dust or plaster powder, no stray nails or cords. The decor is all done in black and white, with stainless steel furnishings instead of wood. Even with the distraction Tony always represents, it had seemed all hard angles, a glossy world in monochrome.

Now it's almost like a graveyard, without any living thing but full of polished marble.

Steve likes lived-in things, homey things. Even in the military, as spotless and regimented and free of clutter as any place, the sheets were threadbare. People slept in them, wore them in.

But maybe he isn't being fair. His eyes track the imposing desk where the receptionists will be, no doubt pretty and perfectly made-up, and he supposes that the bottom half of the skyscraper is supposed to be a branch of Stark Industries anyway; so if it feels a bit like walking into a hotel, at least it's not much different from his – well, former – apartment complex.

The only thing that gives him pause is the elevator, which doesn't have arrows or buttons; there's simply another hand pad, and when Steve steps inside, the sheer amount of floors is overwhelming. Tony'd been babbling on about something irrelevant and possibly fascinating, and had no doubt neglected to give Steve directions to his own home.

But he glances at the keypad: rows upon rows of white circles, and at the very top...

...a row of multi-colored ones. There are six, centered above the rest, perfectly in line. Two are black, two are red, one is green, and each have a shape of a different color set into them. Respectively, they are: a red hourglass; a purple hawk, wings spread, silhouetted in a dive; a warhammer picked out in silver; and, simply, a gold circle followed by a purple one.

The last button, Captain America's, is his shield in miniature, and not even just the star on a blue field – it's the whole thing, the red and white stripes, too. It's – too ornate, too _obvious_, and Natasha and Clint already _know_, but –

– but maybe Steve's overreacting; it's just a button on an elevator.

He sighs, presses it; is once again prompted for his palm, which is beginning to look like it's a thing.

"JARVIS, what's – what _is_ all this?" He asks dumbly once he steps into his – well, front room, maybe. He hadn't asked. But it's not the living room or the kitchen or his alarmingly-sized bedroom, so. It must be some kind of – big entryway.

"I apologize, sir," the AI says. "The arrival of such contents precede my protocol activation."

"Of course it does," Steve murmurs, glancing around.

Tony's been busy.

There's – an entertainment system in the living room, with shelves full of movies. They're from the thirties on up, arranged by release date, and it's not just for entertainment; there are documentaries, anthropological studies and lot history specials on all the time he's missed.

There are sticky notes on the Science and Technology section which read, in Tony's messy, abrupt handwriting, "This has been disproved, but interesting to see how they were lead to that conclusion," or, "This is still new so don't accept it completely." Some of them simply have stars written on them, giant asterisks that reference nothing, like Tony meant to get back to them and never did.

He's also got bookshelves, organized the same way, with all the classics – books he'd been assigned for school, books he'd never had a chance to read or hadn't been able to afford when he was a kid. Also heavily annotated with post-it notes.

His bathroom already has some basic toiletries, with notes to "Ask J," for whatever else he needs. He asks for a towel, and is directed to a seamless cabinet beneath the sink.

Steve takes a quick shower to rinse off sweat and the fumes from the city, and afterward he smells like – flowers. He glances down at his soap: rosewater bodywash. Tony is weird and Steve is not a girl.

His clothes are still in his closet, where he left them, though there's a barrage of new post-its that all read along the PLEASE CAN WE GO SHOPPING vein, and SERIOUSLY STEVE, YOU ARE NOT MY KEPT MAN, BUT REALLY THESE PANTS ARE ATROCIOUS AND I WANT TO BUY YOU CLOTHES. Steve ignores them; his clothes are _fine_.

His bed is much larger than he remembers it being, with – he groans internally upon closer inspection – scarlet and gold sheets.

"Right," he snorts. "Of course." The Stark logo is picked out in gold thread on the cover, enormous, and there's a – an entire _drawer_ full of condoms and lube.

It's just – it'd be too much. It'd be overwhelming, except for the little notes everywhere and the ridiculous touches of ego Tony's just thrown in, and – Steve flushes hotly when he notices the mirror on the ceiling.

It's got little stars around the edges.

"This is not a sex harem," he says, exasperated, as if Tony can hear him. It's too much, but it's okay because it's also silly and ridiculous, little bits of Tony on everything, and Steve thinks – this could be a home. He could be happy here. He could save people, and he could live in this place someone made for him, tailor-fit to what might make him comfortable, full of things he can learn, tools to get in-sync with the present.

And he could – he could maybe have Tony, too.

After he gets dressed, he thinks about putting in a movie, maybe something with Mae West, or maybe a documentary. His run had helped with that itchy, restless feeling that always exists in the periphery nowadays, and he feels like he could stretch out on the couch for a few hours without going nuts with excess energy.

Then a thought occurs to him. "Hey, uh, JARVIS?"

"At your service, Steve," is the polite, measured reply. It is going to take some time getting use to regular conversations with a computer. It's something he usually leaves to Tony. Now it'll be like having a roommate you never see, but calls to check in periodically. He doesn't mind; he gets lonely.

The Brooklyn apartment was his own, and he was grateful for it, but it was a very solitary place.

"These hand-panels – does anyone else have access to my floor?"

"You have what is known as a 'whitelist' on file, sir. Should you choose, you may modify the permissions at any time. Occasionally I will require a physical hand print if they are not already in the system."

"Thanks, JARVIS. Um – who has access right now?"

"Yourself and Mister Stark, sir."

"Does Tony have access to every floor?"

There is something like a pause, which – in a living, breathing human – would almost certainly be hesitation. "He does not have direct access."

"But all he would have to do is, say, ask you?"

"You are correct, Steve."

So the things that are going on in Steve's head right now can basically be boiled down to this: Tony left condoms in his room. Tony has access to his room, currently with permission (that he granted to himself) and, should Steve choose to remove it, he could waltz right back in anyway.

The real heart of the matter, though, is whether it goes both ways – or if Steve is just a convenient escape, a place for Tony to sneak off to whenever he feels like it, one floor down instead of halfway across the city.

"And do I – do I have access to his floor?"

There is no hesitation at all this time. "You do, sir."

A complicated swirl of emotion loosens and evaporates in Steve's chest, and you can't – you can't _trust_ Tony when he says things like, Be my boyfriend, Steve, or: I'd rather marry _you_.

Because the fact of the matter is that Tony is half-crazy and also he makes a lot of mistakes. And more than anything, Steve doesn't – ever – want to be one of Tony's mistakes.

Except that ship's sailed, has from the beginning. Tony's still with Pepper and everyone is unhappy, and Steve wishes it was something he could fix by bowing out.

But even if Tony doesn't, well, feel _exactly_ as strongly as Steve does, he still seems like he's in it for the long haul. Or at least the next long haul. So Steve will probably get a good year or two out of it, if he's lucky.

Steve likes to think he's a lucky guy. He's thinking this right now. He's also kind of really miserable.

* * *

When he gets to the top floor, he palms the entry pad and JARVIS lets him in.

Tony's set of suites are opulent, overly technical, and actually – gorgeous. It's not over-the-top, it's not what Steve was expecting. It's not like his lab, with is a mess of clutter and half-finished projects, and there's a lot of space and a huge music system and no kitchen to speak of; just a fully-stocked bar. He gets the feeling Tony won't be spending much time here, wonders if he should go check out the lab; if he'll even have access to it.

"Was – was Tony drinking last night?"

"Not that I'm aware of," JARVIS answers. "But if you like, I can be sure to let you know when he is."

JARVIS clearly does not approve of Tony drinking to excess, but Steve can't make himself spy on Tony in his own house, with his own AI. JARVIS is pretty much Tony's best friend. He tends to build them for keeps.

"No, that's fine," Steve says. "But I appreciate the offer."

"It, as they say, remains standing. Should you change your mind."

Steve smiles, that little tug of his lips, and he walks quietly through what will be Tony's home, explores it room by room. There's another little walk-in closet like Steve has, but with two Iron Man suits on display; but they look like they're backups or for emergencies, and anyway the regular-use suits are stored near the landing pad on the roof.

Tony has a refrigerator (empty) and a television (very large) but not too many movies. He has a bookshelf with maybe ten books on it, and the rest of it is stacked with – with board games. Since apparently Tony is also a little kid.

But some of the games look old, and Steve recognizes, with a rush of nostalgia, a vintage Monopoly set.

Then he goes into Tony's room.

There is a mirror on his ceiling, too, but it looks more like a screen; like he spends sleepless nights on his back, working through his physical exhaustion because his brain just can't shut off.

Steve sits on his bed and wonders if Tony's even slept in it yet.

Then the glances at the covers. They're red, and the pillows are white, and when he pulls the comforter back, the sheets are navy and patterned with white stars.

Steve thinks, All right. Fine. We're – we're really going to do this.

It sits in his heart, this knowledge, heavy like a bullet in his chest; but a good kind of ache, because you know, at the very least, that you'll always have it.

Steve toes his socks off and slides in under the covers.

"Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you – can you play _I'm No Angel_?"

"Certainly, sir."

The screen above Tony's bed fades on, and the perfect sound system and screen call attention to every burr in the track, every flaw in the recorded film. The images look blurred around the edges compared with today's crystal clarity, and the voices and music seem to come from far away, or through an old car radio.

In other words, it's perfect.


	7. Chapter 7

The thing about the movie Steve's watching is that the main girl kinda maybe used to be a floozy, and then she falls in love, and then she gets set up to look like a floozy again and her new fiancee blows her off.

She's able to talk herself out of it, eventually, but the fact remains that even if she hadn't changed at all – if she'd actually, in this instance, _been _unfaithful – she could've gotten away with it.

Steve isn't sure whether he should be glad she wasn't penalized for past behavior, or appalled that people trusted her in spite of it.

So Steve's lying in Tony's bed, on star-spangled sheets, watching the end credits of a film from the late thirties, when JARVIS says, "Misses Potts calling in, sir," and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin.

Her face appears above him, beautiful and drawn, pale and worn like she hasn't slept. Her hair gleams, the color of molten sunlight, and Steve wonders where she is right now; why she looks so haggard, why her mouth is turned down at the corners.

" – Steve?" She asks, brows knit together. She looks confused. And then she looks wary.

"Hello, Pepper," Steve says tentatively, and there's an incredibly awkward silence for the space of a heartbeat before he manages: "I was, ah. Watching a movie."

"In Tony's bedroom?" She asks. "I mean – well, can you ask Tony to let me in?"

He's about to say, Tony isn't here, it's just me, when he realizes her eyes have fixed on something just past him.

Steve follows her gaze and goes cold.

"Is that – is that a _Captain America_ bedset?" She asks, and her voice sounds – choked.

"No," Steve says hastily. "I mean, the – they're red, white, and blue. With stars on them," he amends, "But I don't think they're – branded or anything."

"Is Tony – ?" she starts to ask, and very quickly Steve interrupts her. He feels terrible about it. He feels there is a special circle in hell dedicated to people who interrupt pretty women.

Also for having damaging affairs around them.

"Hang on, I'll let you in." He scrambles out of bed and hurries to the door, panics marginally when he can't figure out how to unlock it.

"Would you like me to open the door for you, sir?" JARVIS asks politely.

"Please," he says, "I'd – really appreciate it."

It slides open without a sound, reveals the perfect form of Pepper Potts. She's wearing a pale blue sundress, cream-colored shades pushed up on her bright hair, with a laptop bag over her shoulder. She looks anxious, but she smiles out of habit when she sees Steve. It's only a little bit forced.

"Still getting used to all this, I see," she says.

"I'll pick it up," he replies, able to dredge up a half-smile from somewhere and make it sincere. "Um – please, come in."

Her smile vanishes, and Steve realizes he's basically inviting her into her own apartment. Theoretically. But she steps inside, and the door shuts smoothly behind her.

"Where's Tony?" She asks blankly, setting her bag on the floor.

"He's not here," Steve tells her, miserable, and she glances up sharply.

"You were watching a movie in his room," she says carefully, "by yourself?" There's suspicion on her face, but also maybe hope – like she's trying to latch onto anything that doesn't involve the most obvious reason for Steve to be in Tony's bed. The actual reason, the one that's true and that will devastate her.

"Yes," he says, because there's nothing else to say, and Pepper walks past him, takes in the suite of rooms like she's going through a checklist in her head, makes a beeline to the bedroom. She's probably verifying the story, which Steve doesn't blame her for, and he follows with acute apprehension.

Pepper glances at the bed – made, but slightly rumpled from Steve's weight – and then glances again. The navy-and-stars sheets are folded down with the comforter, making the bed look like a Fourth of July layer cake.

"Did he leave or something?" She asks, turning around to look at him, jaw tight.

Steve knows there's something here, something he hasn't placed yet, but he can't figure it out. He has nothing to tell her but the truth, anyway; as if it he could ever do otherwise. "No," Steve says. "It's just been me all morning. Tony passed out around – around five a.m. at the mansion," he says, and hopes to god his face isn't flushing at the memory, at the _intimate circumstances_ after which Tony fell asleep. "He was in his lab. And working on things here, I guess."

Pepper looks like she wants to ask something, but seems to change her mind at the last minute. She touches the bedspread, brow furrowed, her nails catching on the edges of a pristine white pillow case; the red decorative seams on the coverlet; the blue hem marking out the boundary to a sea of stars.

"I'll just – " Steve starts, making a general motion toward the door.

"You came here by yourself?" She asks him, not looking up. She sounds hurt. It's terrible.

"Yeah." He feels like he's waiting for the porcelain to crack, for the veneer to flake off; for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He feels the tremors that precursor his destruction in the air, but as though from a distance. Like there is pain in her voice, and betrayal, but it's all still so far underwater. Because Pepper Potts is unflappable, and professional, and beautiful, and kind, and smart.

"He gave you security clearance," she sighs, and it takes a moment for this to hit; it goes down in Steve's gut like a lead balloon as she finishes, "and he didn't give clearance to me."

She _does_ look at him then, eyes wide and wet, anxious, afraid. But her mouth is a hard line, and when she speaks, her words are steady. "I'm – I'm really fucking stupid," she says, and the fact that she's swearing, it's – more of a blow than anything so far. She says it in such a soft, sad voice. "Will you – sit down next to me, Steve? I'd like to – to ask you a few things."

She sits on the bed. Steve has no choice; Pepper deserves better than this.

"I've had a really rough couple of days," she says quietly, and takes his hand. It breaks his heart. "And, honestly, things have been – strained. Between Tony and I." She purses her lips. "I'm gone so much, running his ridiculous company, and I know he's – busy with his work. And with Iron Man," and here her expression sours, lines of grief forming around her mouth. "But it's happened before. Where he'll just – sort of fall off the grid for a few weeks. He really likes his space, when he needs it, but – but it's been _months_," she says with a hitch in her voice, "and we just haven't – haven't spent any time together alone."

Steve's hand twitches, and she squeezes it. "I feel like I'm fading into the background."

He can't imagine it; Tony without Pepper in his life.

He holds her hand, tilts his head up; stares at the blank, reflective screen above Tony's bed.

"But he always has time for you, Steve," she says, eyes downcast. "He was worried about you, and I thought – I didn't think anything."

Says, "You're the most decent person I've ever met. Hands down, across the board."

It's hard for him to breathe beneath the weight of her words, beneath the implications. It's a special kind of torture, listening to her go over all the tiny arrows that point to Steve as the reason Tony isn't in love with her anymore.

"I'm not," Steve says, voice rough. "I'm really, really not."

She looks at him steadily. "You are," she says quietly. "Nobody is perfect. But I think you're the best of us."

She lets go of Steve's hand.

"So I have to ask," she says calmly, "so that I know I'm not – I'm not jumping to crazy conclusions."

Steve's mouth goes dry.

"I feel awful just for – for even suggesting it aloud," she says wretchedly, full of doubt, and for an instant Pepper looks guilty – it nearly _kills_ Steve – like there isn't a world where she could ever believe this of either of them. "And I – and this probably isn't what it looks like, I'm sure I just," she trails off, leaves the thought disjointed and loose. Unstructured. Fallible.

And just as Steve despairs, just as he thinks, This is _exactly_ what it looks like, JARVIS announces:

"Tony is on the line for you, Captain Rogers."

"Don't – " Steve tries, but Tony's face shows up on the screen, gaunt and grinning and red-eyed, looking every bit like the five hours of sleep he's gotten. Manic and wild-haired and just, just everything Steve wants in the world. Even now, even as he's paying for it.

"JARVIS tells me you were watching old romance movies in my bed," Tony says, breathless, like he's been running (or, more realistically, like he's actually only slept for three and a half hours and has been roughing out blueprints instead of sleeping, and has become inconsolably excited about a new project), "and I can't wait to examine that, babe, but I really need to talk to you about Loki's chest portal, because I've got – "

He falls silent, presumably because he has noticed Pepper.

"Hi, Tony," she says.

"Oh, shit." He sighs, rubs his bloodshot eyes.

"Were you just – not going to tell me?" She asks. She doesn't sound angry, which is probably the worst part, and Steve balls his fists in his lap.

"Pepper," Tony says, voice pleading, "I _was_. I just didn't – I didn't want to hurt you. And I didn't know how."

"You think," she says, voice breaking. She's staring at her lap, taking a breath. Getting herself under control. "You think _this _is better? Finding out by – by walking _in_ on it?"

"No, of course not. I just – I wanted – wait, what? Steve, what were you doing in my bed? Those sheets are new. I didn't know they made porn in the thirties."

"You are a filthy pervert, this _really_ isn't the time, and for the record," Steve says, "she didn't walk in on anything except – except me being here."

"Which is pretty damning," Pepper laughs, but it's stilted and humorless. There's an awful pitch to it.

"Why is that damning?" Tony asks, like they could go back, like he could argue semantics and make it okay.

"Because you locked me out, Tony," Pepper whispers. "And you gave Steve a key."

Steve, eyes closed, sees the picture clearly in his mind: Pepper's small, beautiful hand, pressed expectantly against the identification panel. How she must have felt, realizing the door wouldn't open for her – that this wasn't going to be her home. It makes something come loose in his chest, rattle around; something sharp and terrible and lonely, and this overwhelming sympathy he has for her, exacerbated by how much he genuinely likes her, how much he knows Tony_ loves_ her, and undercut with guilt – it's too much. Steve is out of his depth, and the Avengers are the only family he has, and even when he gets that displaced ache, that heavy pit of despair in his belly, it's just. It's never been as bad as he feels right now.

"Pepper, I just – I love you." Tony tells her, but it sounds like he's begging. "You know that, right? You know I – "

"Tony, I don't want to hear it," and she isn't yelling, no, but her voice has gone _sharp_. "You've been cheating on me with someone who's supposed to be a symbol of morality and faith, someone I consider my _friend_. You kicked me out of the apartment I _designed with you_, that we haven't even _moved into yet_. And now," she says, fighting to keep her breathing under control, "you're breaking up with me over _JARVIS_."

"Pepper," Steve says, agonized, and he can't – there's nothing he can do; there is nothing that will save him.

There's a faint, blurry edge of darkness around her lashes from where her mascara's run. "I'm – going out for awhile," she says stiffly, and stands. Her hands hardly shake at all. "I need some time to think things through and – and process this."

"Pepper," Tony says, "Look, can we – can I buy you coffee? Can I buy you dinner, can we please have a conversation about – "

"_Tony_," She says, voice rough, "I need some time alone."

"Pepper, please, I – "

"Tony," and this time Steve's surprised to find it's his own voice. "I think maybe you should let her go."

"This doesn't involve you, Cap," Tony says, voice flat like he's talking to a stranger, and not even a stranger that fascinates him, that he wants to pick and pry at; just one he wants nothing to do with.

He knows Tony's upset, knows he just – just isn't _thinking _about Steve right now. He _does_, really, it's just – it just hurts him, this distance. It makes everything he hates about what they've done settle in the pit of his stomach, makes him wonder if it was ever worth this.

"Pepper, I need us to be okay." Tony's saying. He's got his hands on the screen, like he could lean into her space, convince her with his body language, and isn't that just a goddamn sight.

"Before _we_ can be okay," Pepper says, and Steve can see her losing her composure by degrees – losing strength, growing threadbare with the effort of holding everything in. Straining at the seams. "_I_ need to be okay."

She's moving briskly toward the door, out of the bedroom, and Steve follows her. She picks up her laptop, asks JARVIS in forced, angled words to let her out.

"Of course, Miss Potts," JARVIS says. "Can I call you a cab?"

"No, I – just get me a list of bars within walking distance," she says.

"I have sent them to your phone, Miss Potts."

"Thanks, JARVIS," she says, just as Tony is saying, "Pepper, wait. _Please_." His face pops up on another screen, this time in the entryway. Tony's entire apartment is basically just the twenty-first century interpretation of 'artful', except with every transparent surface apparently also able to become a computer screen at will.

"Tony," Steve says again, risks it, because Tony can't _see_; he's not here, he doesn't know how Pepper is feeling, and Steve – Steve does. He knows what it's like, to need to be alone after losing.

Tony should, too. Steve can't see how he doesn't. Unless he really is this selfish, this oblivious, this – awful. When you love him and he disregards you in favor of what _he _wants.

Tony looks at him through the screen, grimacing, irritated, unhappy. "Shut _up_, Steve. Look, Pepper, I – "

"I'm sorry, Tony," Pepper says before she leaves. And this is what really gets to Steve, this last exchange – Pepper apologizing. Like she's at fault for anything on the whole goddamn earth.

* * *

"How could you let this _happen_," Tony rages, face in his hands, and Steve would very much like to be somewhere else – somewhere that isn't Tony's apartment, in the presence of someone who hasn't just driven Pepper to tears. Which includes himself as well. But no one can run away from who they are; they can only ignore it or accept it.

"What do you mean, me?" Steve snaps, because he's just – he's _tired_ of this, tired of Tony's mess, tired of worrying about hurting people.

Some small, unsavory part of Steve had wanted all of this out in the open because he'd thought that, maybe, the truth would lighten his guilt. That once they'd gotten the hard part – telling Pepper – _over_ with, he'd feel better.

He doesn't. He feels horrible. And he's not at all impressed with the way Tony has handled things. Maybe he would've told Pepper eventually, before she stumbled onto it herself; maybe he would have dragged it out indefinitely.

But it doesn't matter, because he_ did_ wait. And Pepper _has_ found out on her own, and Steve is a deplorable specimen of humanity.

"What were you even doing there," Tony asks, still ranting, "you have your own apartment, you just – why would – "

"Right," Steve says heatedly, "like she wouldn't've noticed the _Captain America bedsheets_."

"She would not have _seen them_," Tony growls, "she did not have access!"

"And you think that wouldn't have tipped her off?" Steve's voice is cold, and he's angry, and –

– he's leaving.

"Steve – " Tony says, all set to drag this out, to fight about it. Another time, Steve might've liked to hash it out, get it all on the table; just have the damn fight and get it over with.

But he doesn't have the stomach for it today. Not when he's feeling like this, guilty and used and – like maybe Tony doesn't want him, regrets him. Like maybe he hadn't told Pepper because he hadn't made up his mind.

"Look, I'll – we can talk about this later," Steve says. "I'm going for a walk."

"Jesus fuck," Tony shouts, "you too? You're – "

"Good_bye_, Tony," Steve says, and lets himself out.

"_Steve_ – " Tony calls desperately, but the door shuts and the silence of the elevator closes in around him.

* * *

On the lowest level of the floors set aside for the Avengers is the gym. There's a pool, a sauna, a hot tub, a quarter-mile track with weight machines, free weights, treadmills, and ellipticals in the middle, and punching bags (which are Steve's favorite things in the world). There's also a heavy-duty looking robot, probably for sparring, with a note on it that says, Incomplete/Prototype/Do Not Use And This Means You, Steve, It's Really Not Finished And Also Dangerous.

Steve feels pang of – of something, probably loss or loneliness or really-missing-Tony-ness, and he avoids the robot.

He's already run today, and his muscles are just a bit sore all through his legs; so he decides to destroy a punching bag.

Two hours later and he's covered in sweat, his knuckles are bruised and split because he didn't bother with gloves, and he's not alone in the room.

"How long have you been here," he asks Natasha, who has made herself known. She's wearing blue jeans and gray-green scoop-necked t-shirt. It clashes with her hair, but it's a lovely kind of contrast. He wonders if he'll develop a thing for redheads by proximity alone.

"Not long," she says. "About ten minutes," which is actually kind of a long time to be watching someone hit a punching bag. From behind. Steve feels a bit uncomfortable.

"Are you, ah," he flails conversationally, "all moved in?"

"Yes," she says. "Bruce is still fixing up the lab on his level, and Clint is arranging his weapons. He takes special delight in organizing his bows."

"I would imagine," says Steve, who is trying very hard not to.

"He has his favorites, but overall he orders them alphabetically."

"By – make and model? Is that how they do things with bows, like with cars?" Steve tries.

Natasha smirks. "By name. He names them individually, you see."

"Ah," Steve says, and turns away from the bag, faces her properly.

"He – oh." She wrinkles her brow, uncrosses her arms and takes up his hands. "Shit, you've really fucked up your hands."

"They'll heal," Steve says, and wonders if that's a metaphor – nothing lasting, nothing about him changeable; no one could mark him, keep him. No one could want to, if he can't be altered, be made their own.

"Did you," he falters, when she doesn't say anything. "Did you need something?"

"Not particularly," she says. "But we've been trying to get ahold of you all day. You left your phone at the manor."

"Oh," he says, blinking. He's still not quite used to the fact that cell phones are apparently leashes, and even if you don't feel like talking to anyone, people get offended when you don't answer or get back to them immediately.

She passes it over to him. "Tony's been in his lab all day," she says. "He thinks he has a solution for Loki's – problem."

A new kind of guilt, sharp and fresh and of a vastly different flavor that what he is associating with Pepper, settles sharp and cold on his spine. He'd completely forgotten about Loki.

"Is – did you move him? How is he?"

"In agony," Natasha says, and she doesn't look like she's smiling, or like his suffering pleases her. "And Thor did most of the relocation. He's actually with Bruce. Well, Bruce's floor," she amends. "In his containment chamber, but Thor's trying to convince Tony to let him move Loki to his room."

"I'm sure that's going over well."

Natasha purses her lips. "Bruce doesn't seem to mind one way or the other, though I think he's uncomfortable with the fact that, if he needs to make a mad rush to the chamber for any unexpected reason, and Loki's in there, he could very well kill him."

"But Loki's a god," Steve says hesitantly, towelling off some of his sweat. "Death is – different for them, right?"

"I don't think so," Natasha says. "Not when half your entrails are missing."

Steve doesn't say anything, and when he starts to make his way toward the door, Natasha follows.

"Anyway," she says, "I think we're going to make lunch or something. Order in, whatever."

She leaves, and Steve doesn't really feel like eating. But then his stomach rumbles, a reminder that he is, in fact, always hungry. He flips open his phone to check the time.

The first thing he notices is that it's about one o'clock; the second thing is that he has about fifteen unread text messages and three voicemails.

_Steve you need to answer your phone right now_

_fuck are you really going to ignore me_

_Steve, please_

_You know what, I don't even care anymore._

Steve feels bad, because he wasn't really _avoiding_ Tony, he'd just needed to let off some steam, and was everyone crazy in this technology-riddled future? Did people in this day and age really expect everyone to be at their beck and call, to have nothing else to do with their time that couldn't be constantly interrupted?

_I'm sorry, i really am, I just don't know how to fix this_

_Steve, please pick up._

The rest of them are all along that vein, except for that last three, which read:

_look I need to talk to you about this morning_

_well, not about the Pepper thing, about the Loki thing, I think I can fix it_

_I don't care if you're mad, but we need to talk about this._

He debates for the span of about three seconds; considers letting it be. But Steve is nothing if not dutiful, and ultimately decides to bite the bullet and call Tony back.

"Are you still in the Tower?" Is the greeting, without preamble, without even acknowledging him or saying hello.

"What? Yeah, I – "

"I'm in Bruce's lab, get down here." There's a faint pause. "Up here, you aren't in your room so you're probably in the gym, fucking typical," and then there's a sound like he's scribbling something down hurriedly, and Steve wonders how it's possible to have a fight with someone so impossibly distracted.

"Fine," Steve says flatly. "See you in a few minutes."

"Shit, _shit_," Tony says over the sound of something hissing and popping, probably something that runs on electricity.

Steve hangs up. He goes to his floor, takes his time towelling off the sweat, changes his clothes. It's about fifteen minutes later when JARVIS lets him in into Bruce's lab.

Something slithers into his stomach, maybe like jealousy, but – that's something Steve wouldn't ever allow himself. Tony and Bruce and more like – like best friends, weirdo science-guys best friends, and it's not – Steve has no claim on Tony, really, he's just –

"What took you," Tony demands, voice clipped. He's got goggles on and a – well, what looks like the modern approximation of a blowtorch in his hand. Nearby, Bruce is looking over a whole hell of a lot of numbers his thin, translucent screen; it looks like he's working directly with the free air, like there is no proxy that separates him from his work.

And nearby is Loki, wearing a pair of baggy sweats, feet bare, torso carefully and thoroughly wrapped in clean, white bandages. Steve is expressly relieved to see he is not bleeding through them any longer.

The god is pale, lying back on a kind of two-person loveseat sofa thing (where, Steve suspects, Bruce will probably spend a lot of his nights, if he's anything like Tony) though he's far too long for it; his knees are hooked over one arm so his head can rest on the other. His hair is a dark pool around his white, haunted face.

Steve ignores Tony (because they are children and two can play at _that_ game) in favor of pulling a chair up beside Loki's couch. "What are we doing, then?" He asks, somewhat appreciative that Loki isn't locked in Bruce's reinforced Hulk chamber. He looks like a light wind could tear him apart.

Bruce lets his hand fall from the screen. "It's actually fascinating," he says, with that kind of subdued, arms-length excitement that is the hallmark of anything the physicist truly enjoys. "Based on the arc technology Loki used to open the portal, in tandem the tesseract, we think we can create an inverted energy field at a frequency that will – "

"I'm sorry," Steve says, grimacing, "You're going to have to dumb that down a bit for me."

Bruce smiles apologetically, but it's Tony who cuts in.

"The Chitauri leader who gave Loki the scepter," he says, studiously not looking up from the circle of metal he's blowtorching (even though Steve has never known him not to look someone in the face when he's talking to them, for god's sake), "has a direct line to Loki's physical form based on their unique flavor of super-science, which we earthlings call _magic_, since we don't understand it. Or, we didn't." He sets the blowtorch down, pushes his goggles up. When he rubs his eyes, he smears carbon on his face. "Life forms are sources of energy, though nothing infinite like the tesseract. When Loki entered into this bargain – " here he makes a special effort to roll his eyes, " – with those bloodthirsty monsters, he allowed them to seal this bridge or whatever, this line of communication, directly to his energy signature. It's welded on, it's a part of him now."

"So he – sold his soul?" Steve asks, feeling like he's maybe getting the hang of this; he's seen it happen often enough, though usually in a more metaphorical sense.

"If you want to use an outdated, unscientific term with lots of connotative baggage, then yeah, that's the uneducated equivalent to my explanation," Tony says, and he's – there's real anger in his eyes. This isn't picking and prodding, this isn't teasing; this is Tony being a bully.

Steve _hates_ bullies.

Bruce is looking at Tony with his brows knit together, taken aback, and Steve just purses his lips.

"So how do we unweld it?" He asks, refusing to rise to the bait, and Tony narrows his eyes.

"You know how it's possible to jam radio signals?" Bruce says, unobtrusively overtaking the conversation.

"Yeah, they did that in – yes," Steve says. He doesn't complete his thought; he doesn't want to give Tony more ammunition, about how World War II and Nazis are Steve's sole frame of reference in life

"Right, well, it's a bit like that. We can't sever the connection," Bruce says, "so the solution is – somewhat inelegant. But we can give Loki an arc reactor like the one Tony has to more or less cancel it out."

Steve glances at Loki, whose eyes are glassy and distant; the Asgardian is staring at the ceiling without expression, though his teeth are faintly bared. "And it will work?"

"It should work," Bruce answers, at about the same time Tony says, "Of course it will work."

They look at each other, Bruce with a raised eyebrow and Tony sheepish, and Steve looks at Loki again.

"Are you – hearing any of this?" He asks gently, and Loki turns his head.

"Yes," he says, blinking slowly. "We have spoken at length about it." He looks like he's having trouble focusing on Steve's face, and eventually turns his gaze skyward again.

"Did you – " Steve falters, tries to phrase it. Eventually he just asks, "Did you speak with Thor?"

"Some," the damaged god allows. "Not yet about this. Thor was – proving difficult to have underfoot."

"We kicked him out of the lab," Tony says, and when Steve looks up, he hasn't got anything in his hands, and he isn't looking anywhere but at Steve. There's something shuttered about his expression, maybe a little mean, but he's – backing off, maybe. "He kept trying to talk to the computers."

"Also he broke one of my beakers," Bruce sighs.

"When are we going to, ah. Operate?" Steve says, and Loki's grimace deepens. He must be in agony, Steve thinks. The thought of it sends sharp knives of adrenaline to his insides, makes him wince internally.

"As soon as I'm finished soldering this," Tony says, "so if you could shut your mouth and let me concentrate?"

"Tony," Bruce says, staring at him, "why are you – "

Clint patches in, then, his broad face tired but smiling. "Guys, lunch is here," he says.

"I thought – weren't you going to cook?" Bruce asks.

"We made the attempt. Though we have lost the battle," he says solemnly, "we hold out hope that we will one day win the war."

After he cuts out, Tony spreads his hands in mild exasperation. "All of our appliances are StarkTech," he complains. "Food practically cooks itself, how can they possibly screw up sandwiches."

Steve stands, looking at Loki again. "Can you – would you like to join us for lunch?" He asks. "I mean. Are you able to move?"

"I appreciate the offer, Captain," he says dryly, "but given my current state and circumstance, I'm not sure food is the wisest choice." He swallows vaguely. "It would probably fall out of the gaping hole in my stomach."

"Right," Steve says, pained.

* * *

The kitchen – the brand-new, huge communal kitchen, tucked in next to the huge communal den and communal living room with the communal swimming pool and the communal balcony – isn't a disaster; but it's the kind of spotless, scrubbed-raw clean that suggests a disaster was recently and thoroughly averted.

"So we ordered pizza," Clint says, grinning broadly. "I like pizza."

"We ordered seven large pizzas," Natasha clarifies, "to accommodate Thor and Steve's appetites."

"_Pizza_ – ," Tony starts, and he's still – kind of being an ass.

"– sounds absolutely fantastic. I also like pizza," Bruce says.

Thor is standing nearby, looking a bit lost, like maybe he tried to help them cook and was banished eternally. Steve feels bad for him, knows what it's like to be ineffectual; like there's nothing you can do, like no one wants you around.

He touches the god's shoulder. "So Tony and Bruce are done in the lab for now," he says. "Do you want to take a couple of pizzas down to your brother?"

Thor glances at him, surprised and relieved and – something else is thrown in, perhaps apprehension. "I will do this," he says.

"Only – don't feed him. I think."

"But he will need to bolster his strength if he is to – " Thor booms.

"He said he shouldn't," Steve interrupts, and explains reluctantly about food and stomach wounds.

Thor looks desperately unhappy. "How long must he remain in this state?" He asks. "He will tell me nothing."

"I'm sure he just doesn't," Steve tries, and he wants to say, worry you; or, get your hopes up. But neither of those things are reassuring. "...want to talk about it right now," he finishes lamely. "Probably would rather focus on – " Getting better? No, not yet. " – on _not_ focusing on it."

Despite the dreadfully inadequate explanation Steve has offered, Thor's eyebrows knit together as though he is considering it deeply. "I thank you," he says formally, and reaches over Natasha to claim two pizza boxes.

At the kitchen counter, Tony's talking to Bruce around a mouthful of cheese and hot sauce, drawing pictures on his plate with salt and grease while Bruce pens equations. Clint is perched on the back of the couch in the living room, eating heartily, with a smear of oil on his cheek; when Natasha wanders over to join him, she reaches over and wipes at it with her napkin. It's perfunctory, almost clinical, but the archer's eyes go soft as he watches her.

So Thor has gone to hover over his brother, to maybe have a conversation with him where they can understand each other; and Clint and Natasha, while not actively trying to shut anyone out, are so adept at their silent and implicative brand of conversation that no one else can really be comfortable cutting in; and Bruce and Tony are talking about arc reactors and psycho-magical portals, and on top of that Tony's angry, and ignoring Steve anyway.

No one is sitting at the dinner table.

It's kind of worse than those double-dates with Bucky, which were horrible; yeah, Bucky loved him and tried to take him out, to introduce him to people – to help him meet someone who could maybe take Bucky's place as his only friend in the entire goddamn world.

And it's no one's fault that pretty girls didn't want to take the time to get to know Steve, back then. Or that Bucky's other friends didn't want to waste their time hanging out with some small, sickly kid who couldn't even throw a football.

And, of the people alive today, it's nobody's fault that Steve was frozen for seventy years, that he lost _everything_.

It's nobody's fault. And yet here he is, suffering for it anyway.

So Steve, an island in the twenty-first century, held apart from everyone connected to him in this life – because that's just the way the chips fell – methodically piles the equivalent of one-half of a pizza onto a plate. Then he goes back to his room alone.

He asks JARVIS not to take any calls. And to remove Tony from the access list.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve makes it about a third of the way through his lunch and maybe twenty pages into _From Here to Eternity_. Then JARVIS says, as hesitant as an artificially intelligent computer can possibly sound,

"Steve, your presence is requested in Mister Banner's laboratory."

"No thanks," he replies, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of crust. It's stuffed with cheese. This is new and exciting. It is a Nice Thing about the twenty-first century.

"At your request, I have redirected all incoming calls to your voice message system," JARVIS says. "But I have now been informed of an emergency that requires your immediate attention."

"What emergency?" Steve asks, setting his book aside and sitting straighter. "Where – ?"

"You have an incoming call from Mr. Banner's – "

"Okay, okay, I'll take it," Steve acquiesces, wondering at JARVIS's ability to maneuver actual sentient humans with polite purpose.

"Steve," Clint says, blinking up at him from his coffee table, "why the hell are you still on your floor? We need you down here. Like, as of twenty minutes ago, we need you _down here_."

"What?" Steve asks, setting his pizza aside and moving his book off of Clint's transmitted forehead.

"What do you mean, 'what'? Did you get any of my messages? Or Nat's?" There's a sound like – like a heavy thump, from a distance, a mute crash that Steve can only just hear; but Clint winces, looks off-screen, grits his teeth.

"I've been gone for an hour," Steve says. "What could possibly – "

"Jesus _shit_. Okay, okay – long story short." He blows out a breath. "Bruce hulked out, Tony's unconscious, Natasha is having a panic attack and Loki is _losing blood at an alarming rate_."

* * *

"Thank you for hanging up on me," Clint complains as Steve pushes past him into the lab. "You really know how to make a guy feel wanted."

The lab isn't exactly in shambles, because it was specifically designed for Bruce's not-an-alien condition; the tables are all reinforced stainless steel, and everything that can be bolted down has been. There are a couple of smashed test tubes and a dent in the wall, but the cylindrical containment chamber is holding fine and the only thing that's been completely destroyed is the loveseat where Loki has been resting.

It's in pieces, fabric and stuffing and frame in a crushed pile, feathery and broken apart like the bones of birds, or road kill – but then Steve looks a second time, because it's covered with blood.

Natasha is hyperventilating in the corner nearest the door, head between her knees, and Thor has a huge hand on her shoulder – which is really probably not helping – while staring anxiously into one of the chamber's narrow, floor-to-ceiling windows. His face is drawn, jaw tight, but his eyes are blue and full.

Bruce is currently a giant green nightmare, but trapped; and Loki and Tony nowhere to be found.

"What _happened_," Steve demands, stalking toward the curved, metal wall where the other guy is currently throwing his very significant weight around.

"Bruce happened," Clint says, as Steve finally gets an unobstructed view of the smaller room-within-a-room.

Bruce – well, the hulk – is thrashing violently, howling, slamming into wall, ceiling, floor – anything he can. But the structure seems to be holding steady, which is impressive, because the hulk is a terrifying feat of concussion force.

There is a small part of Steve that goes cold with the knowledge that _this_ could have been _him_. The relief he feels at being just Steve Rogers, Captain America is heavier than the guilt he feels for being glad it happened to someone else. Only just, but it tips the scale.

Except –

"_No_," Steve breathes when he sees, slamming a fist against the triple-layer bullet-proof translucent polymer.

Because _Loki is inside_, and he's got – he's got _Tony_ in his arms, and he's very, very still. And every time the hulk makes a heart-stopping lunge in their direction, Loki teleports out of the way. And wherever they reappear, he is perfectly motionless; he doesn't even blink; and his arms are tight around Tony's chest.

There is more blood on the floor than Steve thought Loki had in his body.

"Why isn't he getting them _out_ of there," Steve shouts, and Clint grabs him by the shoulder.

"He's locked in. No one gets in or out. It's a failsafe."

"Can't he – can't he fly them through the walls or something?"

"My brother is gravely wounded," Thor says, serious as death. He's come up behind them, and Steve can't figure out why he isn't slamming on the doors, trying to force his way in – and then he sees the mangled mess of the big god's knuckles, bloody and swollen like he'd cracked some of the bones of his hands. Sees the tension in his body, the tight, compact frustration fighting to break free; is temporarily in awe of whatever force transformed Thor into a reasonable being who does his best with what he has, instead of breaking things until the situation is improved. It's what the hulk does, and it's what Steve wants to do. It's what Thor used to do, but only allows himself a few brief moments of, these days.

"We need to open this fucking door," Clint says, "but Stark's the only one with override authority."

There's another thud that does not quite shake the floor as the hulk bursts against the wall again, to escape, to destroy. Then he rolls and brings his enormous fists down onto the unconscious pile of Tony in Loki's arms and –

– they pass through the open air.

Loki, very near a window now, just beside the reinforced automated door, has blood trickling from his mouth; his eyes are clouded, at half-mast. His arms are still tight around Tony, but his hands are loose and open.

Steve says, thoughtless and half out of his mind with a distant possibility, "JARVIS, open the door and close it _immediately after_ we pull them out."

Clint and Thor both stare sharply at Steve.

And JARVIS says, "System override, Captain Rogers seven-four-twenty-seventeen," and the door slides open.

"What the _fuck_," Clint says, and he puts a detonation arrow in the hulk's face – as a distraction, of course it won't pierce – while Thor and Steve manhandle Loki and Tony away.

JARVIS gets the door shut before the other guy recovers, and they lay the two prone bodies side-by-side.

Tony's out cold, and half his face is spotted with red, a precursor to deep bruising. Steve runs his fingers over the bones of cheek and jaw and temple, terrified, but nothing appears to be broken or shifting around beneath the skin – it must've been a glancing blow. The thought of what else it might have been makes Steve ill, makes something in his chest rage and scream at thought of Tony – of Tony getting himself killed because he never fucking _thinks_ before he speaks.

Thor, beside him, is cradling Loki's long, pale body. Speaking softly against his ear. Smearing a hand over the bare torso, the peeling bandages, adding his own blood to the wetness leaking through.

Loki blinks slowly, face ashen, and with effort he meets his brother's eyes. Says something too quiet to interpret, manages the shape of the words but not the breath to give them form; and Thor snorts, like the reply is something funny, like it's a joke. But nothing is funny right now; all is sober as death.

Natasha is trying to get to her feet, to force herself up out of sheer will, and Clint glances at her and tries to get an arm around her waist. She shoves him off.

"How can it be," Steve says tightly, "that of the two doctors on our six-man team, _both_ of them are out of commission?"

Thor says nothing, just touches Loki's face. In a disjointed moment of resonance, the mess of his knuckles paralleling the blood that leaks from Loki's mouth exposes a more visceral family resemblance than anything their respective genealogies could dream up.

Loki's eyes are still open, but now unseeing. He may be breathing, or he may not. His bandages are soaked through, and when Steve touches his wrist, his skin is cool to the touch.

But he's also a frost giant, and Steve is completely out of his depth.

"Is there anything we can do?" He asks helplessly, and Thor's still holding him, still looking into Loki's face as if it isn't an empty house where he longs to be.

"Please see to our friend Tony," Thor whispers, voice hoarse and gravelly and lost. "I will dress his wounds as best I can. I have been through many battles, but this is... this is damage to an extent to which my limited skills are not accustomed, nor trained."

While Thor peels the strips of medical tape and gauze and fabric from his brother's body with shaking hands, Steve carries Tony over to Clint and Natasha. The silence is broken only by the hulk's periodic attempts to break free of his cage.

"I'll help Thor," Natasha says, much steadier now than before. "And Clint – I can't – it was a nice idea. But I can't, if it's – "

"I won't bring it up again," he says, and in a rare display of overt affection – in front of Steve, no less – he squeezes her hand. She lets him. Then she nods to Steve and joins Thor where he hovers over Loki's body. She's already pushing her sleeves up.

"Do you think we can give him a blood transfusion?" She's asking, and then helps staunch the flow while she explains what a blood transfusion is.

"Is he – ?" Steve asks, suddenly horrified because Tony's back and shoulders and hair are absolutely covered with blood – but Tony doesn't look pale or hurt, doesn't look like he's hemorrhaging internally. His breathing is regular, and none of his limbs are hanging at an awkward angle.

So the blood on him is Loki's. Steve's stomach rolls in on itself. He feels like, if it weren't for the serum and the impeccable constitution it grants, he'd be throwing up all that delicious stuffed-crust pizza right now.

"He took a bad hit," Clint says flatly. "He's – you know, without his armor he's just," and Steve thinks, I know goddamn well what he is without his armor. I could teach that class.

"Human," Steve finishes instead. "Right."

"So Bruce hulked out, and Loki – that guy really shouldn't even have been moving, he is so unbelievably fucked, I can't even tell you, Steve – Loki is too weak to teleport properly, or – or do any of his magic, really, but he was able to move fast in short bursts – "

"What was that doing to him?" Steve asks, because he has to.

"Multi-system failure doesn't even begin to cover it, I don't know how the guy managed it, but Bruce – post-transformation – went after Tony, knocked him into that containment room and Loki went in after, lured the hulk through the door, and – and told JARVIS to lock them in."

"He – he said – " Steve's fists are shaking. "And JARVIS _listened to him_?"

"JARVIS is a very special kind of computer," Clint informs him solemnly. He says 'computer' like 'person'. "He likes to pretend he takes what we ask and say into consideration, but ultimately he will do what he feels is best. Unless there's a hard-coded command that he cannot circumvent."

"So you would take _my_ blood," Thor, nearby, is saying for about the third time, "and pour it into him? And he would be healed?"

"No, it's more like – it could stop him dying," she says. "Except you have to have the same kind of blood."

"This is vexing," Thor rumbles, mouth in a tight line.

Steve looks back at Clint, at the bright blue of his eyes, the hard set of his shoulders.

"What I find particularly fascinating," Clint says, eyeing him, "is that Stark gave _you_ the override. And didn't tell anyone else about it."

"Well, I'm – technically the captain." He says. "It's appropriate."

"It's less appropriate," Clint says, "when he's fucking you."

"_Clint_," Steve says, as fury and guilt and shame and a not-insignificant element of arousal all pool in his stomach, flush his face, "can we please not talk about this now? And what made Bruce so angry, anyway?" He throws out this last bit in an attempt to steer the conversation away from his train wreck of a romantic life.

Clint looks at him for a long moment, like he's mulling it over. Steve narrows his eyes.

Clint raises his eyebrows, raises his hands in a gesture of, Fine, have it your way, but you aren't gonna like it.

"So Tony and Bruce called us down, since Thor was already in here with his lunch ,and they were planning on doing – whatever – with the new arc reactor. So that Loki doesn't break Central Park again. You were called several times."

"My phone was off," he says uneasily.

"And your JARVIS was off, too, apparently." Clint says sharply. "This is a new day and age, Cap. Stuff happens much faster than it used to."

"Right," Steve says, and accepts that he will be shackled to his phone for the rest of his life, long or short. Based on his peculiar physiology and his choice of career, it could go either way.

"Anyway. Bruce asked Tony if Pepper was still coming home on Sunday, since she'd called about maybe finishing early," Clint says, eyes hard. "And Tony said she came back, but was probably drinking at a bar by herself."

"He _said_ that?"

"He wasn't in a very good mood. Also that guy just spews verbal diarrhea when he's concentrating on something else. Like Asgardian chest portals."

"Oh, hell," Steve sighs.

"Anyway," Clint says, "he was very interested in the context of that remark."

"And when he told me," Bruce says, stepping naked out of the containment room, exhausted and irritable, "it made me very angry. I'm still very angry, but – " He looks pained, minor lab damage aside, taking in Tony's unconscious form and the mass of blood and pale god that is Loki, " – I'm mostly just tired now. And, of course," he goes on, as if by rote, as if this is some distasteful thing he's had to say forever, every time, "I hope one day he'll forgive me for almost killing him."

"It's not something he would blame you for," Steve says, and shifts Tony around his his arms.

Bruce looks old beyond his years, and he's moving stiffly. This is helped somewhat when Natasha brings him his glasses. And a pair of pants.

"Thank you," he says, smiling at her, and she looks – drawn, disappointed. It makes his smile falter and fade.

"So here's what's going to happen," he says firmly, much more formidable now that he can see everyone clearly. Thor looks up, face creased with misery. Natasha has blood on her hands and arms from Loki's bandages, has red up to her elbows.

"I'm going to make sure I didn't give Tony any lasting brain damage," he says. "After that, I don't care what you do with him. And then I'm going to make sure Loki isn't actually dead after sheltering that unrepentant asshole with his half-destroyed body. And then I'm going to find Pepper, because this entire situation is fucking unacceptable."

* * *

Steve goes for another run. His muscles are screaming when he gets back, so he very intelligently decides to swim laps for an hour. Only he feels weak and hungry after that, in addition to physically wrecked; so he filches some leftovers from the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Another really nice thing about the present? Cold pizza you can carry back to the entire penthouse-suite floor where you get to live.

But some not-nice things about the present include: Tony sleeping on the couch in Bruce's living room, heavily bruised and unconscious because Bruce hulked out and hit him; Loki in pieces, even after Bruce went through and patched him up as best he could, mainlined some heavy duty probably-compatible IV fluid, made sure nothing vital has come unstitched; Bruce taking off in search of Pepper, ostensibly to rescue her from alcohol poisoning.

When Steve left them, Clint and Natasha had set up camp on the long, L-shaped couch with Tony, ostensibly to make sure he actually wakes up at some point, and Thor was slouching on the carpet beside Loki, who had been tucked tenderly into a pile of pillows and blankets beside him.

Clint had adjusted the fine bones of Thor's hands as best he could, and Natasha had wrapped them tight enough to keep them in place. Then Steve had appropriated some buckets of ice and commanded him to keep his knuckles submerged. He did, mostly.

Steve hung around until Tony started mumbling in his sleep. He did not want to be present when Tony regained consciousness.

So in his room, smelling of chlorine and clean sweat, Steve marshalls his rubbery, aching muscles into some semblance of order and stretches out on his couch. He watches a documentary about angler fish, which is frankly horrifying, and then watches another about Clydesdale horses, which is informative, if a bit dry. But much better than angler fish.

Natasha calls him, her beautiful face coming up on his coffee table screen. He wonders if he'll ever get used to having people beneath his food and books and heels.

She's wearing her default expression, which means no one's dead yet.

"Where have you been?" She asks. "I've been calling."

"I – hit the gym for a while."

"Again?"

"Natasha," Steve says, because he knows very well she's in the SHIELD gym five hours a day when she's not on an op. They've compared notes. She's really helped him catch up with modern-day training techniques.

"Anyway," she says, "Bruce called about an hour ago. He's got Pepper and they went back to the mansion. Tony's awake and complaining about the cartoon Thor's watching, and Loki is – well," she amends, "he's sleeping, and still breathing, and Thor says that's enough."

Steve purses his lips.

"I know this is mostly Tony's fault," she continues. "But you could have kept your fucking pants on."

"I know," Steve says, mouth dry. He thinks about Pepper, drinking alone, doing all she can to distance herself from how she feels, from the sacrifices she has made for this man; and about Bruce, who lived with Tony and Pepper for a good couple of months before anyone else did, who _knows _them. Who loves them, probably, as much as he allows himself to love anything he carries the very real potential to destroy.

"He's asking about you," she says, softer.

"Where are we with the new arc reactor?"

If she's put off by the abrupt change of subject, Natasha doesn't show it. "It's finished. They were prepping Loki for – ah, surgery, if that's what you could call it – before the other guy joined the party." Her voice is smooth, with only the barest hint of a hitch. As far as Steve is aware, Natasha fears nothing on Earth apart from a berzerk hulk and a compromised Clint Barton.

"Okay," Steve says. "When are we going forward with this?"

"When Bruce gets back," she answers. "When Tony isn't concussed."

"Keep me updated," Steve says, and hangs up on her.

The rest of the evening is relatively silent; at one point, a light rain starts to fall. It crowds down around him like white noise.

"Would you like me to activate the soundproofing, Steve?" JARVIS asks.

"No," Steve says. "I don't mind the rain."

He reads more of _Eternity_, then sets it aside, restless, in favor of exploring his apartment. Living room, open kitchen, huge master bathroom off of his equally huge master bedroom, a spare room, a study. A whole lot of extra space in between.

There's a desk in the corner of his living room that he hasn't sat at or rifled through yet, and after a few moments he finds a switch that turns it into a light table; there are also sheaves of paper – thicker, of heavier tooth, and blatantly more expensive than everything he'd ever used before – and an entire range of drawing pencils. And sharpeners. And kneaded erasers.

"Really, Tony?" He murmurs, mouth pulling in a kind of half-grimace. He isn't sure if it – said something in his file, or if he mentioned it to someone, at some point. But he hasn't drawn anything since he woke up from the ice, and –

– this was. This was really, really thoughtful.

Tony does thoughtful things, and thoughtless things, and he's appalling and frustrating and endearing, and Steve has no idea how to live with him when he's so damn _clumsy_ with the people he loves. And Steve has no idea, maybe, how to live without someone who can still handle them so well.

It's impossible, and Steve's still angry about _everything_, and he misses Tony so much it hurts.

So he draws.

He's rusty, he's uncomfortable since his calluses are gone, and he doesn't create anything worth sharing.

But the process is cathartic; it settles him. It's exactly what he needs.

* * *

After a cursory shower, Steve falls asleep around eleven. He's woken up around eleven fourteen.

"Do you mind telling me," Tony mutters, his body close under the cool sheets, his fingers tangling in Steve's hair, his arc reactor bright and familiar and dear, "why I had to hack my own AI to get into my boyfriend's bedroom?"

Steve tries to sit up, but Tony gets a palm on his hip and holds him in place. Angles his body close, like Steve is something he can't bring himself to lose, to let go of, maybe.

About ten things rush through Steve's mind, not the least of which is, Jesus Christ you move fast, Tony, what the hell; and also, I cannot believe you, that's incorrigible, and also you are shameless. But he eventually settles on, "God you're handsy."

Tony only eases him back down onto the pillow, curls close, slides a knee over his thigh and presses his face into Steve's neck. He's not wearing anything but his skin and Steve's limbs.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I'm doing?" He murmurs, trying for irate; but it falls flat, comes out tentative instead.

Steve fumbles for the lamp before Tony sighs and says, "JARVIS, lights. Um, twenty percent."

"Yes, sir," the AI says, voice dripping with disapproval.

"Hey now," Tony says as the dim lights come up, "since when is _he_ your favorite, Jay?"

"I've no idea to what you are referring, sir," JARVIS answers primly.

"Holy cow, Tony," Steve says, because the bruising is every bit as bad as he expected it to be. He reaches out, unable to stop himself: curves his fingers around Tony's head, thumbs his cheek along the deep purple and black welts as gently as he knows how.

"Yeah, well," Tony answers, looking away. "Common consensus is that I deserved this."

"No," Steve says, giving in, shifting closer and lower, getting his arms around that warm waist and his head tucked beneath Tony's chin. He pulls their bodies tightly together, and it feels _so good_. The smooth surface of the arc reactor against his jaw, the blue glow behind his eyelids. "Near-death experiences are not acceptable forms of punishment."

Tony laughs, soft and surprised, and hugs him tighter. "And here I thought this would all be on me."

"Tony," Steve says, opening his eyes. Because all good dreams must end. "About earlier."

"Look, I know I'm – "

"No. Listen to me, Tony," Steve says, stares him down over the scarlet pillows. "You had an affair with me. You told me you were going to leave your – to leave _Pepper_ for me, because that was – not okay. To keep both things going." He pauses for emphasis: "It was not okay to have both things going to begin with. But I went along with it, which was a mistake on my part – "

Tony stiffens, his hands going still, and Steve shakes his head. "No, you idiot, not – this. Us," it's strange to say it, makes Steve feel like he's – like he's showing his hand, almost. "But I should've waited. We both should have waited."

"Point taken," Tony sighs.

"But we didn't. And we carried on, and you _didn't_ leave Pepper." His jaw tightens. "In fact, you waited until she _fouond out on her own_. And then," he snaps, "you had the gall to blame it on me!"

"To be fair," Tony tries, "you did answer the – "

"Tony, it's _Pepper_. She has a direct line through your communications system. JARVIS would put her through if you were in the shower."

"It's true," Tony admits, despairing. "She's my CEO. It was one of her stipulations. She can always get ahold of me – I don't have the luxury of call waiting or letting it go to voicemail if she tries to get ahold of me through JARVIS." After a moment he adds, "He'd put her through if I was in the shower with _you_."

Steve huffs through his nose. "And, as if that wasn't bad enough, you – you treated me like you, like you," Steve starts, and he can't say it. Can't finish it with, Like you don't love me. Because he doesn't know if Tony loves him or not. He has the fainting inklings of an idea, but he isn't _sure_.

And uncertainty with Tony is a vicious, unpredictable thing. It often goes badly. It is a heavy concern for Steve.

Then there's the fact that, based on this whole fiasco with Pepper, he doesn't even know if he wants – that – on the table. If that can even be a thing, now. Or ever. If Steve could ever be happy, if maybe he should just let this go instead. So he can be free.

"Steve," Tony says quietly, and his arms are sort of around Steve's shoulders, a hand at the back of his neck, a hand centered on his spine. The way their heat collects, how he can almost feel the pulse of blood at Tony's wrists, his groin, his throat. The rush of blood in his belly, even if his heartbeat is muted. He wishes it were as simple as this, as raw feeling.

"I've – handled this poorly. I've just never," Tony purses his lips thoughtfully; Steve can feel the motion against his scalp. "I should've called it off with Pepper before I, before I got involved with you. I just didn't know that you'd, that we'd," he fumbles, breaks off.

Steve waits, tilts his head back and inhales the scent of the soft flesh beneath Tony's chin.

Tony shivers faintly, shifts his hips. The soft scratch of his pubic hair against Steve's navel and the length of Tony's hardening cock send a sharp, delicious knife of heat down to pool between his legs.

"I'm afraid, Steve," he whispers, voice gone husky and rough. "I've never had anything I wasn't afraid to lose and I'm fucking terrified. I'm afraid I've lost Pepper." He tilts his head around, kisses Steve's ear. "I'm afraid if I fuck this up any worse, I'll lose _you_, and I can't – Steve, now that I've, I just," but he can't speak anymore; Steve's on him, swallowing his words, moving over him in the semi-darkness.

"Oh, thank _god_," Tony sighs harshly, voice tight, and Steve's hands are all over him, his thighs tight around Tony's hips. After a moment he sits back, stares at Tony's huge pupils, his swollen mouth.

Spread out beneath Steve, he looks like he's had the shit beat out of him. His eyes are wet and he looks so relieved he could weep.

"Does it hurt," Steve asks, thumbing Tony's lower lip. Tony snakes his tongue out, pulls it into his mouth. "Kissing me, I mean."

Tony looks sheepish, turns his head. "A bit," he says, releasing him.

Steve palms Tony's neck, his shoulders, his chest. Skates his fingertips over Tony's ribs and trails butterfly-light kisses along his uninjured jaw. Tony moans, low in his throat, and stutters his hips ever so slightly.

"So we aren't doing this tonight," Steve says firmly, withdrawing and bracing his weight on his arms. "I'm surprised you didn't break anything." I'm surprised you weren't killed, he adds silently.

"Well I'm not going to beg," Tony sniffs, wrinkling his nose – but then he winces, bares his teeth at the pain.

"Sure," Steve mumbles, stretching out on his side and curling closer. "JARVIS – lights, please."

"Of course, Steve," JARVIS says happily as the lights go out.

"How can you have possibly seduced my AI with your forties charm. It is incomprehensible to me. We do things so much better in the twenty-tens, and how can your charm supercede my own." Tony tugs lightly at Steve's throat with his teeth.

"I'm sure that's exactly what it was," Steve laughs. "Charm. And not, you know, common decency."

Tony relaxes against him, but keeps his head back on the pillow at a safe distance.

"So since we aren't gonna fuck," Tony says carefully, "I suppose we should – talk about our feelings?"

Steve trails his hands over Tony's ribs, fits his fingers at each groove. Presses his nose to the soft spot just under Tony's ear. "Okay," he says. "If you want to."

"Are we – we're really going to do this, right?" Tony asks earnestly, painfully sincere. When he leans away, his eyes are wide as they search Steve's face. "You'll – consent to dating me or whatever, and. And this will be a thing, a long-term thing?"

Steve purses his lips, considering.

"You're killing me here, Cap," Tony says.

"By long-term," he says eventually, "you mean...?"

"What, you want me to put a time limit on it?" Tony says, pinching him with his toes. Steve squeaks in surprise, and then quickly pretends he doesn't.

"Well, you seem really set on the – long-term-ness of it. The officialness of it." He hadn't thought that was what Tony was really after, considering (painfully) his last relationship. With the woman of everyone's dreams.

"Steve, I _want_ you," he says. "For as long as I can – I know you'll get tired of me, everyone does, I know I'm a low-doses kinda guy, it's not news, I just – "

"Shut up," Steve tells him. "You're doing it again. The thing where you never, ever stop talking or get around to the point."

"Right," Tony replies sheepishly. Then: "I know you don't love me, but I thought maybe we could – we could work up to that."

Steve stares at him. "_What_?"

Tony winces. "Well, if we can't, it's – I mean, if someone else comes around, I guess I'd – you know. Get over it."

"You think I don't – ," Steve starts, and then derails. " You think I'd settle for a _relationship of convenience_?"

"What else would we be doing?" Tony asks bluntly.

Steve swears, loudly and colorfully, and Tony blinks at him in stunned silence. "Get out of here, Tony," Steve says, pressing his palm to his eyes. "Just – please go. Please. I can't – just go."

Tony doesn't move.

Steve says, "_Tony_."

Tony says nothing, but he stares at him for a long time, brows knit close together, gaze penetrating and heavy like he's working through a puzzle. Steve doesn't look at him.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he says firmly. "Steve: I'm in love with you."

"You – you just," Steve sputters, eyes wide.

"It's very possible," Tony says slowly, "what with all the, the declarations about Pepper, that I never got around to actually saying it. Out loud. To you."

"No," Steve says, swallowing, "you actually didn't."

Tony looks pained, and then he reaches down and grabs Steve's hand. "I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious." He glances away, strangely shy. "I thought you were just making me work for it."

"I wasn't," Steve says. "I thought we were just – I don't know."

"You thought I was leaving my perfect girlfriend for an FWB?"

"I don't know what that is," Steve mentions.

"I asked you to be my boyfriend! I told you I wanted to marry you," Tony says, incredulous.

"Yeah, well, you say a lot of things, Tony."

Tony starfishes himself out in bed, makes a long, low exhale of frustration. "Wait a minute," he says. "You – you gave me your _butt virginity_ based on '_I don't know'_?

"You are incredibly crass. And, technically speaking, I gave you my – um. Other virginity? Too. Both of them." Steve is _not_ going to say 'dick,' in the context where it means 'penis'.

"Your – oh my god. Steve." Tony slams his hands against his face.

And promptly yelps.

Steve carefully guides his hands away, kisses at the mess of his handsome face. "Shh, shh. Don't hurt yourself any further, dummy."

"DUM-E is my lab bot," Tony whines. "If we're deciding on endearments, I prefer 'stupid,' or 'idiot'."

"But not, say, 'babydoll'?" Steve laughs, and it's a joke. It really kind of is mostly a joke.

Tony looks up at him, blinking the residual tears of pain from his eyes. "You know," he says. "I don't think I mind that too much."

"Okay, so now that's out of the way," Steve says, settling the blankets more firmly around them, "can we go to sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah – wait." Tony turns into him, weaves his limbs all through Steve's, insidious, like an impossible parasitic sexpot that burrows deep inside of you and never lets you leave. Glowers up into his face. "Are you my boyfriend or not?" And then, self-consciously, "Do you – y'know."

"Do I what, Tony?"

"You are horrible, your mister-wholesome-nice-guy-captain-america thing is a facade to mask your nefarious evil."

"Right," Steve says. "Goodnight."

"I can't believe you're going to make me ask. This is an awful way to start a relationship."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "I think starting a relationship with an affair is probably worse."

Tony pulls a face. "Ouch. Low blow." Then he looks at Steve expectantly.

Steve makes him wait, lets him get antsy; he knows, he _has _to know, but the fact that he's getting worked up over it – it's sweet. Also maybe Steve's being cruel, but Tony could do with a little bit of that. He's getting off light, is what.

"Yeah, Tony, I'll be your boyfriend." He leans down, kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, the tip of his nose. "And yeah, I'm – I love you. Of course I love you."

"There now," Tony mutters, hiding his hot face in Steve's neck. "Was that so hard?"


	9. Chapter 9

Steve wakes up with a hand between his legs, fisted tightly around his heavy morning erection, and Tony's mouth on his neck. His lips are pressed just above the edge of his collarbone, hot and insistent over his pulse, and Steve gasps reflexively; inhales the scent of Tony's hair; revels in the scruff of his messy beard.

"Oh, m'sorry," Tony mumbles around his tongue, which has darted out to lick cool stripes across Steve's flesh. "D'I wake you?"

"Ughmph," Steve manages, his fingers tangling in the sheets. Something hot and tight and gorgeous is settling at the base of his spine, snaking fierce and sharp between his hips, and he arches up into Tony's hand.

"I wanted to wake you up with my tongue," Tony says, shifting slightly, working his hand as breathes into Steve's ear. "But you're so fucking _huge _in the morning, Steve, and it hurts to fucking talk right now." He sounds put-off, so much so that Steve snorts, moves his shaking hands and carefully, carefully tilt's Tony's head back. He kisses him softly, slower and slower as Tony's hand moves faster, and when Steve comes Tony swallows the sound wholesale.

Tony wipes his hand on Steve's sheets, because he's an asshole, and then hugs their bodies together and lays in it with him. So at least he's not a hypocrite – just kind of a filthy slut.

Steve breathes for awhile, rides the white fade of his orgasm down to earth, luxuriates in it. It's perfect: the sticky press of their bodies, the impressive heat they've managed to trap between them, beneath the blankets; the faint blue glow of Tony's arc reactor, the way it very slightly stains the daylight JARVIS has let in.

Then Tony's shifting against him, and it takes Steve a moment to realize he's touching himself.

"Hey, hey," Steve mutters, heaving himself up on his elbow. "Let me."

Tony smiles at him, faintly flushed and pleased, but also a bit guilty. "That was my gift to you," he says. "I can handle this one."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "What, an apology handjob?"

Tony looks sheepish.

Steve licks his lips, and Tony's eyes drop immediately, track the motion of his tongue.

"Blowjobs could still be on the table for this morning." Steve says.

Tony's eyes flutter open. "Your language has gone positively _vile_, Cap. What happened to the sweet virgin I married – "

And really, Tony needs to stop with these marriage jokes, it's ridiculous and it's too much and Steve kisses him because he can't even help it. Steve's warmed through, all the way to his bones, with the staggering weight of every goddamn feeling he has, twisting and flowing through his body, tangling up inside him. It's rough and erratic and dangerous, unpredictable. He wants to feel like this for the rest of his life.

He eases Tony's thighs apart, strokes along the soft, delicate flesh where they join his hips. Kisses the head of his cock, eases it into his mouth.

He's not well-practiced, but he knows what feels good. He takes his time. If the tightness of Tony's hands in his hair, the filthy things he's saying and the volume of each ragged moan – because Tony never shuts up, _never _– are any indication, Steve's probably doing a decent job.

They lay in bed for an hour, after. Tony's talking to JARVIS about – well, actually about JARVIS itself; making sure no wires got crossed in the upgrade, making sure this JARVIS is the same JARVIS at the mansion and in Tony's suit and probably his cellphone.

"Wait, you – do you mean the systems have to keep updating each other? Like, at the end of the day – sort of catch all the JARVISes up?" Steve asks, bewildered.

JARVIS goes quiet, like he's waiting for Tony to reply, and Tony just sort of looks at Steve.

Then he smiles.

"There is only one JARVIS," he says. "It's – one giant system. Sort of. He exists over multiple servers, and there _is_ a backup that is regularly updated, but it's not active; it's just in case."

"The network includes the Malibu house as well," JARVIS adds.

Tony smiles at the screen, which actually has no representation of JARVIS, since JARVIS is just a voice; but Steve gets it.

"And the Malibu house," Tony says. "When I was setting up the Tower, there was a skeleton version of JARVIS running here – just during the repairs and the rebuild. It wasn't connected to the rest of the JARVIS system."

Steve notices how Tony refers to JARVIS as 'he', but to the bare-bones version as 'it'. He doesn't mention this. He might never mention this; it's just another sweet, simple thing about this complicated man. But it's something he almost sort of understands.

Steve rests his hands behind his head, listening to the two of them go back and forth; at one point, Tony shifts and lays back, his head pillowed on Steve's stomach.

"And what time are the plants watered at the Mansion?"

"Six a.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Sunday, sir."

"As of yesterday, how many people lived there, and who?"

"As of yesterday, yourself, Mister Banner, Mister Barton, Miss Natasha, and Miss Potts, sir. Captain Rogers had already taken up residence here, at the Tower."

"Very good. And today?"

"Today, Miss Potts is the only one currently in residence. Mister Banner slept there last night, however."

Tony looks unhappy, but resigned. "I'm glad he found her," Tony says to JARVIS and Steve both. "If he slept over, it probably means she was in – really bad shape."

"Of a certainty, sir," JARVIS says.

Tony sputters. "What? JARVIS, play – play the records, please."

"Certainly not, sir."

"_What_? JARVIS – "

Beneath him, Steve is laughing. "JARVIS likes Pepper better than you."

"I have a great respect for both of you as individuals," JARVIS replies primly. "As such, I will not violate the privacy of either."

"Was she – how is she?"

There is another faint pause, and it makes Steve crazy – how _sentient_ JARVIS is. He's impressed and a little terrified, especially at the affection and friendship Steve feels like he, himself, has with the AI.

"Perhaps you should call her, sir." JARVIS suggests pointedly.

Tony's eyes knit together and his mouth turns down at the corners. "I'll – I'll call her tomorrow."

"Of course, sir."

Steve's stomach chooses this inappropriate moment to gurgle beneath Tony's head.

"I feel like you _just ate_," Tony complains. "I feel like you just ate dinner."

"Sometimes," Steve points out fondly, "people enjoy regular meals. Every day. Multiple times."

Tony huffs, but it's mostly for show. Then he gets a hold of Steve's wrist and tugs ineffectually. "Well, c'mon then. Up. Let's feed you before your enormous super-solider body turns against itself."

* * *

There isn't actually any food in Steve's kitchenette, and Tony's kitchen – isn't. Since it's actually bar, with alcohol and not, you know, actual digestible _food_.

They shamble into the communal kitchen, where they find a note pinned to the refrigerator in cramped, straightforward handwriting: Stark, my undersea-themed bathroom is a stunning paradise, and the bubbles and haircare products extremely agreeable to me; but even a rudimentarily stocked pantry would've been greatly appreciated. As a woman of refined tastes, there are occasions where I also enjoy sustenance.

Beneath, this time in a loopy half-scribble: Went to forage with 'Tasha, the city is our oyster.

And once more, the cramped writing: Disregard that reference, Barton is an animal.

Tony rolls his eyes, but this refrigerator also proves to be empty.

"Well, we could go the market," Steve says. "I'm sure Thor is hungry." Steve feels a great amount of fellow feeling for the big god, and just now he's wondering when the last time Thor ate was.

"And – ah, we should probably check on Loki," he adds.

Tony glances at him thoughtfully. "I suppose these are all things we need to get done, huh."

"Yeah," Steve says, straightening, and Tony catches his hand. Tugs him down just that little bit, catches his mouth chastely. He doesn't linger, and it's hard for Steve not to follow his mouth when Tony pulls back. "What was that for?"

"Nothing," Tony says with a faint smile. "I just – I get to now, you know?"

Steve smiles with half his mouth, but it feels like he's smiling with everything he has.

At Steve's insistence, they shower and brush their teeth before they go out. There's no helping Tony's bruising, which has darkened over his cheek and jaw and the angle of his eyebrow on that side, and they spent a long moment together in front of Steve's bathroom mirror.

"Well," Tony says at length, "I'm sure it won't cause too much of a scandal. We're the Avengers. We get in fights all the time."

"For the greater good," Steve agrees. "To ensure personal freedom. For all." He passes him a baseball cap, and Tony smiles crookedly and pulls it down over his face.

Then he puts on his sunglasses, but he would've worn them anyway.

"How do I look?" Tony asks as they take the elevator down – which reminds Steve about the Captain America button.

"About half as bad as before. Also, what the heck, Tony?" He points at the tiny replica of his shield. "Everyone else's is only two colors."

"Oh," Tony says evasively. "I didn't notice."

"Right," Steve says, and they descend in silence. Until Steve opens his mouth again: "I just think it – I feel that you made us too obvious."

"Steve, it's an _elevator button_," Tony says, but he isn't looking at him; actually, beneath his sunglasses and bruises, he looks faintly pink. "It's hardly a declaration."

"You could've just done a silver star on a blue field," Steve presses.

"Yeah, well, I could've done an arc reactor for myself, made it glow and everything."

"I think that's – that's kind of my point," Steve says, quieter.

"You are raving," Tony says, and steps off the elevator.

They wander out into the New York summer and Steve breathes in the warm the air; figures it just means Tony really, really likes him. It sets off something loose and comfortable in his chest, something free and happy. It's ridiculous. Steve hooks his arm Around Tony's without even thinking about it.

Tony glances up at him, a strange smile on his face. "Just in case you weren't aware," he says, "a bruise won't go amiss. Captain America and Iron Man holding hands? Might cause a bit of a stir."

Steve flinches his hand away, but leaves his fingertips on Tony's elbow; bites his lip. "How do you – feel about that? It's – it's different now, right?" It the forties, this kind of thing had been, well. Illegal.

"Right," Tony says. "It's totally fine these days. But there are still people from – well, the children of your generation, actually. They aren't really okay with it." Tony arches his back, stretches his arms above his head; he makes the motion natural, mindless, and it dislodges Steve's hand. "So we'd receive overwhelming support, definitely. But also more than a few hate-letters. Possibly a death threat or two, but I don't think it would escalate – "

"_Death threat_? Tony," Steve says, "Do you – we can absolutely keep this, uh. In the cabinet?"

"In the closet," Tony corrects, smiling. "But I'd prefer the bedroom, really."

"Ah," Steve says, and it's probably for the best, absolutely. But he feels like he's losing something. Even though he has more than he ever could have , if things had been different – if he hadn't crashed into the ice – if he'd married Peggy. He would've been content, he's sure. He would've believed he was happy.

He would never have known he was missing someone like Tony in his life.

The monkey on his back, the heavy-duty, reinforced excess of regret and failure, tightens its claws around Steve's conscience; berates him for daring to take happiness from this life, after everyone he left behind.

Tony doesn't say anything for awhile, and they pass a couple of different markets before he appears to choose one arbitrarily. He tugs the hem of Steve's t-shirt, draws him inside.

"Maybe Clint likes apples," Tony hazards, and Steve looks at him and then looks at him again; and in between, he looks at the red apple display.

"Because of – William Tell?" Steve asks, baffled, in a rare moment of insight. Really, he's hanging around Tony too much if he's starting to follow _that_ crazy train.

Tony looks irritated. But he doesn't say no.

"I have no idea what they like, either." Steve mentions, testing, and it works – Tony softens just a bit. "How about this," Steve says. "We'll just cover the main food groups. And everyone can, you know, take turns. Cook whatever."

"Or they can go shopping for themselves and charge it to the household account," Tony says. "And fend for themselves."

"I like the idea of us eating together as often as we can." Steve does firmly believe this, that family should focus around mealtimes; that food is the glue that binds people together. It's one of the reasons he was so hesitant to stay for dinner that night, at the mansion. And has it really been almost a month since then? It makes Steve tired, to think about everything that's happened.

"Oh, by the way - what happened to 'The kitchen's communal'? We all seem to have our own. Mostly."

"Steve, those are not _kitchens_. They are kitchen_ettes_. They are for when you are too hungry to make it to the proper kitchen, or feel like reheating a can of beans without getting dressed. I don't know."

"You're ridiculous," Steve says. "I had a kitchen_ette_ in my apartment."

"And now you have a real kitchen, and a real apartment, and me." Tony says this last part completely off the top of his head, and doesn't seem to think anything of it; but it gives Steve pause, makes his heart stutter. He wonders if Tony meant to include that, or if it just slipped out.

They're in the store for maybe a half-hour, and they buy so much stuff that Tony ends up calling a cab.

Surprisingly, they aren't really recognized – Steve stands out a whole lot more with his uniform and shield, and though Tony Stark is an extremely recognizable man, he's usually in a suit of a different kind when he's making an official appearance. His arc reactor draws a few glances, but the truth is that it's never visible when he's in the media; and, anyway, it's New York. People don't make too much eye contact when they're buying groceries.

"What did you mean, about the household account?" Steve asks as they pile in with the groceries. It's not a yellow cab, it's one of those six-person white minivan things.

"You guys have credit cards," Tony says. "You get a weekly allowance. Didn't I tell you?"

"No," Steve says, bewildered. "Tony, that's – you don't have to – why are you _paying_ us?"

Tony blinks at him and says blankly, "Because you guys've got to eat? We can't have real jobs when we're busy being scientists or saving the world? I like seeing Bruce in clothes that aren't threadbare from the previous ten owners?"

"Tony – "

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," Tony sighs, like the jig is up. "I, ah – own the rights to our identities."

Steve blinks. "_What_?"

"Well, I inherited yours. Sort of. That one's trickier because it's also property of the US Government, and everything that belongs to them is not copyrighted. But I get royalties, and I've trademarked the rest of the team – "

"Are you telling me you _own_ us? Tony, are you _kidding me_?"

"Well, no, I don't _own_ you guys. It just means that I get royalties for every media appearance, interview, magazine – newspapers, especially – and internet blog that features us. Almost all of it goes back to the team," he insists. "I just manage it. It keeps us funded. And the rest is on reserve for when we periodically destroy parts the city." He pauses. "It's a bit tapped right now, what with Central Park."

Steve doesn't know whether he should be offended, appalled, or weirdly impressed; as he turns it over in his head, it does _seem_ like a necessary course of action.

"So these t-shirts," he asks. He's wearing his yellow Iron Man one again, because he's feeling a little romantic.

"Yeah," Tony says, smiling slightly. His forehead has smoothed, and he looks relieved. "Royalties."

* * *

Later that night, Tony and Steve are watching TV on the main floor. Natasha and Clint haven't returned from wherever they've gone, and it's Thor who joins them in the living room. He wanders in, shoulders rounded, bereft and without energy. He settles heavily in the giant (reinforced) easy chair.

"How's Loki doing?" Steve asks quietly while Tony flips through the stations.

Thor looks miserable, and unhappy, and worried. "Not well," he admits. "He drifts in and out of a deep sleep. He lives yet, but I – " his voice breaks, and he clears his throat. His strong hands grip the armrests.

Horrified, Steve gets to his feet, goes to Thor's side.

The god is not crying, but tears are evidenced in every word. His eyes are open wounds as he regards Steve wearily. "I cannot bear to see him this way. But I fear he is not strong enough for Tony's procedure."

"It won't take very long," Tony says, putting the TV on mute and looking over at Thor. Steve has his hand on the god's shoulder. "It won't – I mean, we'll have to cut into him a tiny bit."

Thor's head snaps up.

"But! Loki said as soon as he was assured that the portal was blocked, he could begin healing himself."

"He needs to heal _now_," Thor booms. "Even if it's only a small amount. He is too close." Roughly, Thor tangles a hand in his hair, pushes the gold mass out of his face. "I _fear_ for him." His tone suggests this is a new development, jarring to his personal worldview, and Steve thinks it's beautiful – to trust the people you love not to die, to take care of themselves.

He wishes he had that certainty. As it stands, he can't help keeping tabs on every single person on his team, their laundry list of injuries, possible enemies, known and probable health conditions. The last time he'd put his head down, he'd lost everything. He never wants to lose anyone again. Even if that isn't a promise you can make to yourself without, eventually breaking.

"What is he doing now?" Tony asks.

"He sleeps," Thor says, hunching forward. He doesn't put his face in his hands, but he bows his head and stares at his calloused palms. They are open and empty; they are, in this instance, powerless.

"I'll get ahold of Bruce," Tony says, "and see if we can take care of this in the morning. I wanted to give Loki some time to – recover from yesterday." Tony meets Thor's eyes. "He saved my life. Since he also tried to steal my things, brainwash me, and kill me by turns – I figure we're even, now."

Thor smiles, exhaustion and worry lining his face. "I thank you, my friend."

"Get some sleep," Tony says. "You look terrible."

Thor laughs, because that's what Tony does. He insults you, and he's really telling you to take better care of yourself. Because he likes you and wants you to be okay.

It's easier seeing it as a third party.

After Thor goes to bed, Tony and Steve sit on the couch and watch a Bette Davis movie. It's about a man with a handicap who starts to help strangers anonymously. He doesn't care about them, at first – rather, the man is listless and disinterested from his accident, disconnected. He starts helping people when he learns of their problems, but it doesn't mean anything to him.

Then he finds out that his fiancee is in love with another man, though she turns him down; she can't leave her husband, she says, after his accident. He needs her.

He's touched by her kindness, by the fact that she's sacrificing her happiness for his, and he breaks off the engagement and sets her free.

And he continues to help people, but feels better about it. It shifts from an experiment to real altruism.

Steve always thought it was a nice sort of movie, but Tony appears to have mixed feelings on it.

"Do you think Grace fell in love with someone else _because_ of her husband's problem?" He asks idly. "Or would she have anyway?"

"If his handicap is the reason she wouldn't leave him," Steve considers, "probably, yeah. And it probably would've been messier."

"I see," Tony says. "Well, it was – nice watching this with you. I get to pick next time."

Before Steve can say anything, Tony rushes on: "Not because this was bad, it wasn't bad. It's just fair. We get to alternate."

"Yeah," Steve says, smiling, "that's fair."

"I'm going to work on some things now," he says. "Prep for tomorrow morning, double and triple-check the numbers again. Have JARVIS apply whatever additional data he's collected from Loki to the virtual model so we don't fuck this up."

"All right, Tony," Steve says. "Come to bed at some point."

"Sleep in my room," Tony says. "On my sheets. I'll come up at some point."

Then he's knotting his hands in Steve's hair, pulling him down into a languid kiss, sliding a hand around his waist and squeezing.

It makes Steve's stomach burst with butterflies, makes him melt, makes him want to say all kinds of silly things, like how much Tony means to him. How Tony is what Steve wants for the rest of his life.

* * *

Tony doesn't come to bed at all, which isn't a surprise in and of itself. The next morning, after Steve gets back from his run, JARVIS makes a general announcement for everyone to meet in Bruce's lab. He runs into Clint on the elevator on the way down, eating an apple.

"You guys make it back okay?" Steve asks, doing a cursory assessment of the archer.

Clint glances at him, expression complicated and faintly embarrassed before shifting into something friendlier. "Hey, Cap. I don't know about Nat, but I got in this morning."

They'd returned at some point in the night – at different times, apparently, and from different locations, because Clint's talking like they weren't on an assignment together – and Steve listens carefully.

"So – your eyes are still better?" He asks.

Clint glances up at him, smiling a bit wider. "Sharp, Cap." He has a bit of apple near his lip, and his left eye seems somewhat bluer, somewhat brighter.

"Good. Welcome home, Clint," Steve says. "Those notes were a riot."

When they get of at Bruce's floor and wander into his lab, Thor is on one knee next to the makeshift operation table where Loki's laid out and Natasha is standing just beside him. She glances up at them, her mouth a flat line.

Loki is very pale, all loose, messy hair, dark around his face and shoulders. His eyes are half-open, sketching sightless paths across the ceiling. He appears to be breathing, but only just; Steve must watch him for long moments before discerning the subtle rise and fall of his stomach, the faint and rare flash of his pulse.

Tony and Bruce are moving carefully around each other with the ease of long practice, but Tony isn't saying anything more than necessary, and he gives Bruce plenty of space. Not because he particularly fears the hulk, even now; but because he values his friend. He glances up when Steve comes in and offers a weak, apologetic smile. Looks tired, but no more than normal – which means he did end up sleeping somewhere. And, considering he is about to perform surgery on a dying god, this is something Steve gravely appreciates.

If Bruce is thinking about anything other than their work, he doesn't show it.

"I have been informed that there could be a deal of pain involved," Loki is telling his brother softly. "It may be best if you were not present for this."

"I will _not_ leave you," Thor growls, and Loki reaches out blindly. Thor takes his hand, and Loki turns his head to the side. Slowly, slowly drags his eyes toward his brother's face.

"Then don't," Loki sighs, speaking with effort. "And stay."

"It will be over soon," Bruce starts. He's got a – a device in his hand that makes Steve uncomfortable. It's small and sharp-looking. He glances at Natasha, who nods and pats Thor on the shoulder before walking to the end of the table.

Tony adds, "Maybe ten, fifteen minutes tops."

Clint hangs over by Steve, near the door, while Natasha pulls her hair back and crosses her arms, watchful and ready to move at a moment's notice. Thor holds Loki's hand. Steve very much wants to leave them to it.

He doesn't, though.

This is how the procedure will go: there is a little bone, just above the sternum, called the manubrium. They will open Loki up; they will affix the reactor to the backside of this bone; they will close him up. And hopefully he will start to heal.

It's difficult to watch. They don't put Loki under – he's been drifting in and out of consciousness as it is, and how much valium do you even prescribe to a god? – and he doesn't scream, though his eyes are wide and sightless and salt gathers at the corners, trickles down over his temples. Bruce's careful hands maneuver the delicate, miniature bone saw. Natasha doesn't look away; Clint does; and Thor's eyes never leave Loki's face. He looks anxious and horrified and so very, very _afraid_.

For Steve, the world shrinks to the sound of tight, quietly controlled breathing all around; the wet rush of air from Loki's open mouth; the muffled crush of Bruce separating cartilage from bone.

Clint looks grim, fidgets and stares at anything else in the room, and Natasha is smoothing her hand over Loki's knee. It's almost maternal, except it's Natasha, so it really isn't.

Tony carefully removes the manubrium, and it slides out like a wet, red sand dollar; his gloved fingers slip over the surface as he finds a grip. There is sweat at his temple as he drills tiny starter holes into the bone.

Bruce holds his fingers carefully in place, keeps Loki's chest propped open until Tony finally screws the arc reactor down; he fiddles with it for a moment, testing the hold. Satisfied, he very carefully settles the bone back in place. He doesn't flinch, even when Loki gasps sharply.

When he pulls his hands back, they are shaking. Bruce settles the bones and cartilage and skin back in place, closes him up. He uses gauze and padding and a lot of medical tape.

Loki sounds like he's hyperventilating, and Thor's hand is red and splotchy where Loki's holding on; and then, all at once, it's over.

Bruce gives a muted smile and tells Loki, "If you can do your healing magic, now would be a good time."

With effort, Loki asks, "You're sure?"

"Yes," Bruce says firmly.

"Please," Thor says, and he reaches over and smoothes his fingers over Loki's pale face, touches his cheek and his chin, skates fingers around the delicate shell of his ear.

Tony nods perfunctorily and says, "I'll just, I'll be right back," and practically runs from the room.

Steve follows him out.

* * *

Bruce has a bathroom in his lab, but Tony chooses the one on the other side of the floor, in the apartment proper. By the time Steve's caught up with him, he's already bent over the toilet, dry-heaving.

Steve sits down on the edge of the bathtub and rubs his back.

"One time," he says between gulps of air, "I made P-Pepper replace my arc reactor." He coughs wetly, hands gripping the edge of the toilet seat. "I didn't even _think_ about what I was asking her, she was almost crying at the e-end, made me promise never to m-make her do it," there's another pause in dialog, and Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair, touches his neck, palms his spine reassuringly. "N-never to make her doing a-again."

"Did you?" Steve asks.

Tony snorts, cautiously sitting back. He tears off a strip of toilet paper and wipes excess saliva and little bit of bile of his mouth. "No," he says wearily. "No, I told her she was all I had."

Steve doesn't say anything, and Tony doesn't look at him.

"In retrospect, I used to be kind of a selfish asshole."

* * *

Steve makes a late breakfast – well, lunch, at this point – while Tony calls Pepper. He hopes it goes okay; he hopes it's not terrible, and that Tony isn't a selfish asshole, and that Pepper doesn't break his heart.

He cooks enough for everyone. Clint and Natasha are there first, and each snag a plate. Bruce comes in a bit later, wearing clean clothes and smelling a bit like weed. He smiles tiredly when they make eye contact.

Steve notices that his shirt and pants are newer than what he had before, when they first met. He wonders how he hadn't noticed, but Tony's probably been buying Bruce's clothes for the last three months. Steve's starting to get on board with this credit card thing.

Tony's the last, and he looks – lighter. Relieved, almost. There's sadness there, and resignation, but it's only shades away from real acceptance.

"Here," Steve says, setting the table for the two of them. In what appears to be an ongoing issue, everyone else is eating in front of the TV. Steve fully intends to call a team meeting to address this.

"Did they even have stir-fry in the forties?" Tony smiles, sitting across from him. He tucks into his food with relish.

"Sort of," Steve replies, by which he means, JARVIS gave me the recipe and also walked me through it.

Tony raises an eyebrow, and under the table he knocks his ankle against Steve's shin, leaves it to rest there. It's not a bid for attention, it's not even overtly sexual – it's just Tony, slouching in his chair, looking for that small bit of contact. Comfort.

"I think we'll – be okay," he says quietly. "I think we'll eventually be okay."

Steve's halfway through his second helping of vegetables teriyaki over brown rice when JARVIS alerts them:

"There is activity in Queens requiring your immediate attention. Colonel Fury will rendezvous en route. ETA twenty minutes."

"What's up, JARVIS?" Tony asks, pushing to his feet.

"They appear to be malfunctioning bio-android clones."

"Son of a bitch," Natasha says. "I guess we missed a few, Hawkeye."


	10. Chapter 10

Some notes:

OKAY SO. This is the last chapter of patiently. I'm sorry it took me so long to update. I was rolling around on this for awhile. I'm more or less satisfied with it. I feel like things are well in hand and that Thor and Loki are primed for the fic I'll be writing about them next! But that may not be for a little bit, because HERE IS MY PLAN: I'm going to heavily edit this entire story. Including the short stories. I'm going to deal with consistency issues and the millions of typos. I'm going to rewrite _Room by Room _so that it's from Tony's point of view, because I feel like he needs to have his say - or at least make his mistake for all to see. He deserves reasons. They obvsly won't be any kind of excuse, but. His side. After that, I have a Clint/Hawkeye side story, too. And I'm going to revisit _I must confess (I was lost)_, with Pepper, because I have some PLANS.

This is all going to take some time. I offer you this chapter as a consolation for how long it is going to take me to revamp everything and make it perfect and then write more stores in this universe. I'm so sorry it took me so long. I wrote this fic very quickly, except for this last part. Wah. Anyway, thank you for reading. Everyone - thank you. Even people who didn't/won't comment; I have more hits on these stories than anything else I've written, so. I'm grateful and flattered, etc, and I'm glad you enjoyed this unfinished mess I've offered up.

e2b.

* * *

"Tony, you're still recovering from – "

"Steve, it is a _bruise_. I will be wearing _armor_ and you are absolutely fucking ridiculous."

So Steve says to JARVIS, "Please disable all online versions of the Mark armor until such a time as a doctor consents to Tony's return to duty."

"_Fuck you_, JARVIS you'd better _not_ – "

"Certainly, Captain Rogers." JARVIS always refers to Steve as Captain Rogers when he's in uniform. It's one of many nice things JARVIS does, because JARVIS is polite and thoughtful and a vital asset, even though his creator is coarse and volatile and three parts insane for every part genius.

"You're leaving me out and Natasha's ribs are cracked and Clint's lost an _eye_ and – "

"It isn't your call," Steve finally snaps, because they've been having this argument for fifteen minutes and New York needs the Avengers. So maybe Steve's pulling rank and giving orders and throwing his weight around, maybe he's doing and being everything Tony hates – authority figures trying to get the job done – but he doesn't have _time_ to coddle Tony's prickly ego right now.

In retrospect, he could've been a little less bull-headed. But that's always been their special give and take: unable to back down from each other until catastrophe strikes, because in times of peace, the warrior attacks himself.

* * *

"It would be very interesting to me, Captain," Fury begins, in the this-is-my-angry-voice-getting-louder way of his, "To learn why half of your team is missing from this most crucial of missions." He manages to express, in singular tones, thorough disappointment; rabid frustration; and the flagrant idiocy, yes-this-includes-you,-Steve-Rogers, of everyone under his command.

There's also a bit of why-can't-babysitting-heroes-be-someone-else's-job and what-could-I-possibly-have-done-in-my-life-to-deserve-this thrown in.

"Tony has a head injury," Steve says, wondering vaguely why he is _still_ catching hell for this call, hours later, from a different person entirely. "Thor is – taking care of Loki."

"Taking care of Loki," Fury parrots back, giving Steve a look that expresses quite clearly his opinion on the matter. They're in his office, Steve flanked by Natasha and Clint, with Bruce off to the side in ragged jeans and a borrowed t-shirt. They are all of them a mess of gore and translucent clone fluid, matted and viscous, coating their bodies and clothing. Self-consciously, Steve accepts that he probably doesn't smell very nice right now. He would dearly love a shower.

Natasha steps forward. There's a wet, sticky streak in her red hair. "Sir. I can debrief you on that."

"You were _withholding information_ – ? "

Natasha calmly raises her hand. "Nothing changed until this morning," she says. "We were interrupted before we could report to you."

Steve is eventually dismissed while Natasha, and presently Bruce – when the technical aspect is called into question – update Fury where the Asgardian brothers are concerned. He takes a moment to wonder what it's like, to have a team you depend on and corral and worry about; to have them keep secrets from you. Then he realizes that maybe he does know, and the thought makes him uneasy.

He thinks about Clint's eye and Natasha's ribs, the way Tony shuts you out with a few choice words when he's angry and defensive, even when you haven't taken a shot at him.

Bruce's reticence and how, even now, he latches on to the smallest bit of human decency anyone might think to show him.

How lost Thor was before Loki came, how lost he is now that Loki's here.

Clint follows him out of Fury's office and eventually says, "Not that my opinion matters, but," only Steve cuts him off.

"What? Of course your opinion matters." He doesn't mean to interrupt, but this is something that surprises him. Steve wonders if he's given the impression that he undervalues his team members, makes a note to specifically include Clint from now on, even in passing. It's true that maybe Steve's – had his hands full lately. But that's not really a good excuse for a leader of a team of superheroes to have, doesn't make it at all acceptable to neglect them.

But Clint blinks, a faint pink coming up on his face, and Steve maybe starts to pick up on something.

"Thanks for that," Clint says, clearing his throat. "But this thing with Tony."

"Okay," Steve says, hesitant, and wondering if this is another don't-ruin-things pep talk.

"Just make sure you're – " he pauses, forehead creasing. Backpedals and starts over. "Okay, so you know how – with Natasha and I – ?"

"No," Steve answers honestly. "I have no idea."

Clint purses his lips. "Okay. You know how, with – with Tony and Pepper, and then Bruce...?"

Steve remembers: _Bruce is a fucking suicide, Steve. He pulled the fucking trigger. It just didn't take._

Remembers, about Clint and Natasha: _Home, for them, is a little box at HQ with a standing shower and a twin-sized bed. Home is living out of motels and – and fucking helicarriers._

Remembers Clint saying, days ago, We need to be able to work together.

In light of current circumstances – this ugly rift between Tony and Bruce, for one – maybe that's not all Clint meant.

"I promise you," Steve says sincerely, "I won't let this thing with Tony compromise our team. We're all – family. That's the most important thing." Because they need to be able to _live_ together, too.

It's the first time he's said something like this. The words are awkward and stilted, because while Tony can usually get away with blurting out any silly thing that comes to mind, Steve probably definitely can't.

But Clint smiles anyway.

* * *

So the first thing Steve does when he gets back to the Captain America level of Avengers Tower is peel off his sweaty, soiled uniform and hang it over the wicker hamper. He feels guilty about their laundry service (which he has never seen but feels certain exists), but suspects this particular mess is beyond his skills; they may end up burning it anyway.

The water is hot and perfect and rejuvenating, even if the clone-goo takes special effort to scrub out of his hair. He catalogues his injuries: a cut above his brow; bruising and a puncture wound near his hip; a twisted knee, and burns on his shoulder and the side of his neck. Everything will be mostly healed in the next twenty-four hours, but his knee will probably twinge for a few weeks.

He allows his body to relax. By the time he's clean and feeling remotely human again, someone's banging around his room with mean intent.

Steve sighs inwardly and turns off the tap. He takes his time towelling dry.

"Rogers, I don't know what the hell you're doing in there, the water's been off ten minutes, what, are you _waxing_," Tony growls, jerking at the door handle.

It gives easily, opens outward, and Steve is left blinking curiously at Tony's face, taking in the bloom of surprise that, for the time being, has replaced anger.

Then it's quickly overshadowed by something more primal as his eyes rake hotly over Steve's body, take in the low-slung towel and wet skin. Steve feels like a drowned rat, but Tony's looking at him like the residual beads of water gathered in every hollow are pearls, or gold. Rare treasure, and he the man who can afford anything.

Steve experiences a rare moment of, _I_ did that, that was _me_, because Tony's – Tony _wants_ him, it's so obvious, how could it have taken Steve so long to figure him out?

"Don't you ever lock the fucking door," Tony snaps, getting angry all over again, but Steve knows him well enough by now – Tony has to work up to it, which means he's not actually pissed anymore. He's just throwing a fit for the sake of it.

"Why?" Steve asks, surprised. "You're the only person with full access to my floor." He pauses, smiles wryly. "Whether I allow it or not."

"Still," Tony mutters, and then pauses. "Hey, you're – looking kind of beat up here."

"It happens, sometimes." Steve says dryly, and all at once Tony's got his hands on Steve's damp torso, mouth hot on his neck, and Steve wonders if today is the day where he'll suffer a fatal fall in the bathroom. Apparently it's one of the most dangerous places in the home. JARVIS caught him up with present-day mortality statistics; apparently the AI had thought the information specifically pertinent.

It kind of maybe really might be.

"Well, I certainly don't approve of this reckless behavior," Tony mutters, and his shirt is soaked through from contact with Steve's freshly-showered body. Tony's really just impossible, and intoxicating, and every goddamn thing Steve loves. It's dangerous, and far too easy to lose track of something as straightforward as a conversation, as complex as your own moral compass.

But then Tony jerks backs, and Steve is colder for the loss of him. "Listen, pal, I've been Iron Man for the past two years, and you were only Captain America for a few _months _before your little ice-nap. You've done your song and dance and I've done mine, but we're about even when it comes to this hero business. So don't you fucking dare leave me behind again."

It's not something Steve can promise, and it's not even a fair thing to ask. He has priorities and obligations; he likes to think he's Captain America first, leader of the Avengers second, and Tony's boyfriend third.

Except he's Steve Rogers, too, and Steve Rogers is Tony's boyfriend more than anything, as hard as he can be, because Tony is something vital and rare and precious and Steve _knows_ him.

"If you're hurt, I'm damn well leaving you behind," Steve tells him firmly, resigned.

So, two weeks later and Tony's still irritated. He's been holed up in his lab, for all purposes inaccessible, and while Steve is pretty happy that the clones haven't resurfaced and that he's back to smelling like soap and laundry detergent and whatever weird shampoo Tony's buying any given day (because smelling like sticky bitter _pungent clone-goo_ was disgusting, will forever be disgusting), he feels ill at ease without some problem to focus on. At least Tony has a hundred and a half projects to bury himself beneath.

Steve has gotten everything in his suite of rooms exactly the way he likes, which honestly took up far too little of his time. He cleans it every week, just to have something to do, and he watches a lot of movies and spends at least two hours at his drawing desk every evening.

He's been at the gym hour after hour, until his knee actually starts getting _worse _because the serum can't heal him as quickly as he tears it down, until his muscles scream and he can't even pull his body out of bed for his early morning runs. He's spoken at length with Fury about possible (and lucrative) interviews with news agencies, ironed out official statements re: Central Park and the clones, and had a really uncomfortable conversation about Pepper and Tony and Steve's role in that particular bag of crazy.

"Your team is your own business," Fury had said, stiff and clipped and obviously at a loss; possibly heading toward a minor coronary; and probably trying to speak in code for, Never mention your sex life to me again, Rogers, especially involving Stark, and please consider me on a need-to-know basis and that there are things I will _never need to know_.

Anyway, Steve is restless because Tony's mostly avoiding him and there's nothing threatening Earth or New York that remotely require the attention of superheroes. Bruce and Tony are kind of a no-fly zone, but also busy with their respective work and research, and Clint and Natasha are in and out with sporadic, non-Avengers SHIELD missions. This time not involving clones, but probably involving assassination. Which Steve is not comfortable with and can't condone, but – again. SHIELD business, so it's out of his hands.

If he occasionally hears a whisper of _liars and killers in the service of liars and killers_, well, that's just a memory and it isn't even his.

So when he's not practicing self-abuse at the gym or trying the twenty-first century on for size (every day is an adventure, and he has learned the perils and thrills of: shopping for oneself; visiting the cinema, and incidentally 3D movies; biking in New York traffic; Making Friends), he spends as much time as he can with Thor and Loki. This is something he feels strongly about, because Thor has to be coaxed into leaving his brother's side for superfluous activities such as bathing and sleep. But he'll eat if you place food in front of him, which Steve makes sure to do a few times a day.

He doesn't even feel like he's intruding on them, not at this stage in the game. Part of him is almost certain that Loki appreciates any break at all from Thor's intense scrutiny and overbearing worry.

Because Loki is still healing, and he's really taking his time about it. From what Steve can gather, it's a slow and painful process; he could walk around – carefully, with assistance – the first day after the surgery. But it was another three before he could ingest food, and Steve will never pretend to understand Asgardian physiology.

"I am not going to break," Loki snaps as Steve walks in, and Thor looks aggrieved, frustrated, and – fond, by turns. So maybe they've reached some kind of understanding, then.

"But there is no reason for you to suffer needlessly," Thor argues, and he has a hand on Loki's shoulder, a hand on his hip, helping him out of (or into) bed.

Loki shoves him off – and hisses sharply.

"Hey, hey," Steve says, and they both look up at him. Thor steps back self-consciously, which is disconcerting – Thor is hardly self-conscious about anything – and Loki has a thin hand over his stomach, and his face is pale.

"I've got some apples," he mentions, and Loki offers a crooked almost-smile in exchange.

They decide to go for a walk today. Steve figures that he can act as a buffer, keep Thor from getting too antsy; and Loki can maybe feel at ease in his unnatural weakness with two people at least as powerful as he is standing guard.

Walking doesn't appear to hurt him, but the act of sitting down or standing up, of stretching out in bed or lifting something heavy, these all seem to pull at partially-knitted wounds, stress and split freshly healed tissue, bring out high spots of color in Loki's cheeks with the sharp and shifting pain.

The summer's drifted by ponderously, and Steve's been understandably distracted; so when they step outside in the bright August sunshine, he's surprised at the cool edge to the wind.

They don't walk far. Loki and Thor are both in jeans – special-ordered or custom made, who even knows, but probably Tony's tailor had a hand in it – and Thor unsurprisingly tends to favor sleeveless shirts, though weirdly he likes them with huge text treatments or stylized, incomprehensible images. The one he has on now is pale gray with bright streaks of crimson, and maybe it's Chinese characters or maybe it's a picture of a house; Steve can't say, and it wouldn't make a difference. It looks comfortable, though.

Loki's wearing two t-shirts, long sleeves under short sleeves, and it mutes his arc reactor far better than it would Tony's larger one.

Steve's seen it twice, while watching Bruce change out bandages: beneath the shiny new scar tissue, the blue ghost of light silhouetting the edges of bones. Four hollows of light edging around clavicle and cartilage, backlit at the top of his chest, like a segmented solar eclipse.

He isn't sure if Loki is cold or if he's self-conscious about the arc reactor. He doesn't seem the type to let that sort of thing bother him, but – well, Tony didn't, either.

And Steve, because of how he feels about Tony, already has something of a soft spot – appreciation – for those blue halos of light; but Steve isn't who Loki would be hiding it from.

A lot of presumably solid things about Loki are kind of turned on end when it comes to Thor.

They end up in a small Starbucks, and Steve orders drinks haltingly while Thor pulls a third chair around one of the two-person tables. Loki looks on, visibly amused, because Steve hasn't quite figured out why the sizes are in Italian and Thor is loud and careless and skids the chair legs over the cobbled tile.

"Here is your – five-shot americano with three raw sugars and, um, whole milk creamer," he says to Thor, realizing too late that caffeine and sugar are probably not an ideal combination for someone like him. "And your decaf soy latte, Loki," Steve adds, setting the cup on the table.

Steve drinks his coffee black. He doesn't really like to be put into – boxes, but. As much as he tries to get caught up with the times, he's kind of an old-fashioned guy. All this business with syrups and foam and – and sprinkles and chocolate, it baffles him. It's coffee, not dessert. Right?

But sitting with the two Asgardians is nice, kind of. Steve doesn't feel physically awkward or in the way; instead, the space he takes up is his own, rather than something borrowed. They are none of them small, and their shoulders are bulky and broad; even Loki, leaner and harder, exists outside of the average range of human size. It's nice not to be the only one.

Silence settles around them, surprisingly companionable. Loki is looking out the window and Thor is looking at Loki, and sometimes at his coffee. And it's enough.

Steve thinks that, maybe, this is the point of everything – to have other people crowd around you, inconvenience you. To make you crazy and keep you sane, to aggravate you until you fit.

* * *

Steve doesn't see Tony at all when they get back to the Tower, and Thor is excited and energetic and very much interested in – flying around the city, or something. It's hard to be sure. Some of the words he uses, even with the Allspeak-whatever, have little or nothing in common with Steve's internal dictionary.

Loki raises an eyebrow, but takes his brother's caffeine high in good humor. Steve leaves them at Thor's floor, somewhat disconcerted at the difference it makes, between two people, when one of them decides they just don't want to _fight_ anymore.

Thinks about Thor, always ready to forgive, wipe it clean like nothing ever happened – but too easily drawn into conflict anyway, especially when he loves someone.

Thinks about Loki laying down arms. And how maybe, sometimes, you have to _ask_ to be forgiven. How maybe, sometimes, you should ask to love someone, too. The action, not the feeling; because it can mean keeping them safe, even if it means leaving them behind.

So Steve excuses himself and goes to hunt down Tony. It isn't hard; if he's not in his garage, he's in his lab. And if he's not in his lab, he's in bed (by far the rarest place to find him, except early in the morning for a few short, restless hours).

Steve's just tired of waiting for Tony to come to _him_.

* * *

"_Fuck_, I just had that shit, where did – "

Something small and heavy and probably mechanical hits the wall next to the door where Steve's standing. Steve coughs.

Tony looks up, stricken and apologetic, from where he's seated at his cluttered workbench; but then his face resettles, and he wrinkles his nose. "What's up, Cap," he asks, but it isn't really a question.

"Just seeing what you were up to," he answers. Tony's wearing a loose t-shirt, soft and gray with skulls and flowers in dyed watercolor. There's a name on it, but he hasn't taken the time to puzzle it out the last three times he's wrestled it off Tony's body; he'd been in search of lovelier things.

"Why," Tony mutters, taking off his protective eyewear. He rubs his eyes with the butts of his palms, then openly glowers at Steve. His hair is sticking up all over the place, dark and hazy, and his face is a bit red (probably from a soldering iron; it's next to him on this desk, and it's on. But it's usually on, even when not technically in use. Now that Steve thinks about it, it's probably a fire hazard and he should be Concerned). "So you can find something else to _forbid me from doing_?"

Steve sighs. "It's not like that, Tony," he says, and since Tony doesn't have a second chair – mostly to discourage visitors, Steve suspects – he kneels down beside his, yes, _boyfriend_, and settles his face against Tony's knee.

"What are you – " Tony snaps, only his voice comes out in a rush, and he's maybe gasped just now and there's half a stutter to the words. Steve has his eyes closed, but he knows Tony's hands are hovering, hesitant, because they keep shifting and blocking out bits of light.

"I miss you," Steve murmurs, edging his chin over Tony's thigh, and finally those calloused hands settle themselves on Steve's shoulders. Restlessly comb gentle fingers through his hair.

"I'm right here," Tony says, trying to sound clipped, or irritable, or – or anything but fond, and maybe needy, which is exactly how it comes out anyway. Steve's picked up a lot over the last few months, and the last few weeks have certainly been an experience. "I'm always here."

Steve shifts, rests a heavy shoulder between Tony's thighs. Looks looks up at him through lashes at half-mast. Tony swallows audibly. Yeah, Steve's learned a few things.

"You're always here," Steve repeats, "but 'here' is your lab."

Tony snorts. "What, a codependent plea from Captain America?" His words are unkind, but his hands are gentle as they skid over his temples, massage his scalp and smooth the ridges of bone behind his ears and at the back of his neck.

Steve sighs. "I'm tired of being punished for trying to keep you safe." He stands abruptly, and Tony's hands are still outstretched, blindly seeking purchase. But Steve has moved away.

"I'm not _punishing_ you, christ, it's not like I'm withholding sex."

"No," Steve says, because while Tony's been stumbling into his bed at all hours of the night, just shy of catatonic, he always manages to rouse himself when Steve gets up for his morning run; to get an iron hand around Steve's wrist or cock, to keep him close for a while longer. Slither over him, serpentine, ride his cock sleepy and flushed and moaning his name. Steve swallows, mouth suddenly dry. "Just your company."

Tony looks away, clenching his teeth; Steve can see the muscle working his his jaw. "I'm gonna – leave you alone, now. So. Take some time to think about what you want from me."

"What do you mean, _want from you_, what – "

"I'll see you later."

He leaves Tony staring bleakly after him. If he's ignoring Steve without any particular endgame in mind – if he's hot and cold because he's undecided, or honestly unhappy – well, then they have a problem. If he just wants an apology or something, that's childish and dumb, but. Steve will do it; he'll apologize. There isn't much he won't do for Tony, and that's the end of the truth. That's the entire spectrum, for Steve.

But overall, things aren't going too badly. Well, at any rate, no one's blowing up New York; Tony's bruising has all but faded; Natasha's back to spending a truly repulsive number of hours at the gym; and Loki's moving around on his own and eating, and even talking some of the time to people who aren't Thor. Bruce spends his days mostly shut up in his lab (which is not particularly new), but combined with his irritation with Tony and Tony's irritation with Steve, they aren't collaborating nearly as often.

He wonders at the volume of joint research that isn't being collected; if they could've cured cancer by now or something, but haven't because of mundane squabbles.

Uncomfortably, other than 'computers' and 'gamma radiation,' he realizes he actually has no idea what either of them do all day.

So Steve, restless and finding himself at an awkward standstill – no volatile enemies, no gods bleeding-out, no complicated and immoral affairs with the man he's horribly in love with – tries to take some time to himself to enjoy it. He's spent so long waiting for the other foot to drop that it's hard for him to really relax.

It doesn't work; so he goes for a run. Then, still antsy with excess energy, he figures he'll return to his old standby – beating the holy crap out of punching bags.

Clint and Natasha are running drills. Well, Clint is spending a lot of time on the mat with Natasha helping him up, only to push him back down with her bare foot or a sharp elbow to his stomach. She looks _good_; she isn't favoring anything, and seems to be – well, in top form. Steve's glad.

"Hey, Cap," Clint says, smiling awkwardly and rubbing his cheek. Natasha's just caught him with a vicious hammerfist.

"Hey guys," Steve says. "What are you working on? Mind if I watch? Or join or whatever."

Natasha laughs, lovely and surprised, and Clint's face flushes to his hairline.

Steve has no idea what's going on. "Um," he tries. "Or not?'

"You are free to join us at any time," Natasha says, and _winks_. Clint, who's taking a drink from his water bottle, promptly chokes on it.

"So, uh," Steve says. "You're sparring?"

"I'm sparring," Natasha smiles. "Clint is collecting bruises."

"I see," Steve murmurs. "Seems to be a popular pastime these days." After a few moments, they pick back up; and the trick to Natasha is that she is very fast, and very flexible, and strong in the way that ballet dancers are strong – she might not be able to level a man with a shot to the jaw, but she can hold every part of her body in flawless tension, can move and shift and curve around someone without ever touching them, or touching them in all the ways that bring them to their knees, or graves.

It's possible for Natasha to be hurt, of course; but Steve knows of nobody who could catch her, and fewer than nobody who could keep a hold of her if they did. She'll let Clint get his hands on a wrist or arm or ankle, but never anything she can't easily slip out of; she'll dart and duck and sneak little hits on his shins and stomach and shoulder, and then lay him out with a spinning hook kick to the jaw.

Clint, though – he's a strong guy, and he's a not bad fighter at all. He doesn't have her speed, but he's acrobatic enough to keep up; and if he ever got her in a grip she didn't hand to him, gift-wrapped with a bow, she'd probably be in trouble. All he has to do is lock her down; she couldn't win if it came to brute strength.

It's a pretty impossible personal goal, though, all things considered.

"You're all over the place," Natasha snaps, and drops her arms. "This is what happens when you waste every opportunity for hand-to-hand combat by bludgeoning people with your bow." She purses her lips and then looks at Steve.

This is alarming; she has a very direct stare. And very full lips.

"Here. Go a round with Steve, he's almost as slow as you are." And then she reaches up and slaps Steve on the back, between the shoulder blades.

It knocks the wind out of him.

"Tasha – " Clint starts, his expression complicated and maybe appalled.

"Don't worry," Steve smiles easily, "Compared to her, everyone's slow."

Clint looks confused for a split second before relief relaxes his face; and then his eyes flash and he sinks a little into his stance.

"What, you want me to give you a countdown?" Natasha scoffs, so they start.

Steve pulls his punches, focuses just a bit more on blocking without his shield, and Clint manages a few hits that certainly sting – though they won't leave any lasting bruises.

"Good, good, it's less like watching a snake and an infant and more like watching American Wrestling."

When Clint rolls his eyes, Steve accidentally catches him on the jaw. Clint's head snaps back and Steve grabs him at waist and shoulder, steadies him.

Natasha, suddenly close, laughs and laughs.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, pained, not sure what to do with his hands.

Clint just shrugs and rubs his jaw. "Not a problem," he mumbles, and Steve thinks about it, and Natasha snorts.

"It's what he gets for being distracted. A pair of baby blues aren't worth dying over."

"I suppose," Clint mutters, staring steadily at Natasha, "it would depend on who those blues belonged to."

Natasha slides her arm up over Steve's shoulder, and Steve, belatedly, tries to release his hold on Clint; except they're both crowding him now, and Natasha smells really – well, sweaty, but sweet underneath.

And Clint smells like leather, and some kind of oil or polish, and then JARVIS is saying, "Rogers, Director Fury would like to speak with you in the conference room on the main floor."

"I'll just," Steve says, and absolutely does not run away from them.

But he does walk very quickly.

* * *

"Tony," Steve asks, eyebrows knit together, "are you spying on me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, JARVIS sees everything, and aren't you keeping Fury waiting?"

He's back in Tony's lab again, leaning against the closed door, because JARVIS has never once called him by his last name.

Tony's facing away from him, bent over some giant engine thing.

"Oh, sure," Steve says. "Except Fury isn't here."

Tony says nothing.

"Look," Steve sighs, advancing, and risks a hand on Tony's shoulder. "I know you're mad. And I know you miss me – " Tony snorts, but he also flinched when Steve touched him just now. " – but you can't have it both ways. You can't sleep with me at night and ignore me during the day, and then demand my attention as soon as someone else starts talking to me – "

"That harlot's hands were all _over_ you," Tony says, turning around, and Steve raises his eyebrows.

"What? Don't, um, ever let her hear you call her that," he says, and then Tony looks terrified.

"I was definitely talking about Barton. So please no one murder me in the night."

"You're ridiculous," Steve says, and Tony wrinkles his nose, glares up at him in a huff.

"So how'd you strong-arm JARVIS into lying?"

"He didn't," JARVIS says, contrite. "He overrode my intercom system with a vocal conversion program."

"For the voice I _made_ for you," Tony complains.

"Of course, sir."

Steve makes a soft sound of amusement, and tilts Tony's chin up. Looks into his eyes long and hard, until Tony's cheeks color and his breathing hollows out and he's trying to look away without running away.

"What," he finally snorts, "is there something on my face?"

Steve's lip twists, and carefully he thumbs the faded, barely-there bruising all along Tony's jaw, up to temple. It's nearly healed. "How are you doing?"

"Whatever, I'm fine," Tony says, taking a tiny step back. His hands don't leave Steve's waist, though. "I'm fine now, and I was fine two weeks ago."

"You're only complaining because I gave you an order," Steve says, leaning in and kissing Tony's forehead, right on his hairline. He inhales, breathes him in. Presses his jaw against the dark, uncombed mass. "You would've complained about fighting clones. And probably blacked out."

"You're an ass, Rogers," Tony mumbles, because there's really no scenario where he doesn't criticize everything under the sun. It's this thing he does, independent of any given situation: he looks at his world and finds it wanting. He tries to fix what he can, though.

But now he's sliding his hands over Steve's hips, getting a good hold and pulling their bellies flush. "Also it's a wonder you put up with me."

It's almost light-hearted, but something in Tony's voice tugs at Steve, tightens in his chest. But he runs with it: "I ask myself that question every day."

Tony doesn't exactly go still against him – his hands are prone to wandering, after all – but he doesn't look up, and he maybe turns his nose into Steve's neck. Just a little bit.

Steve tilts his head up again, minding the tender areas, sliding his fingertips over Tony's jaw. He lays them to rest at the hollows beneath his ears, and this time Tony doesn't look away.

Steve kisses him as soft as he can bear, the lightest brush of contact. The quiet of the room closes in around them, and Tony's pulse is hot against his palms; the heavy rush that floods Steve's body, even at this insignificant, miniscule piece of intimacy, both grounds him and bowls him over. Fills him with elation and terror; curls in around his heart, liquid as a cat, with the claws out and curving in.

Steve feels free, and trapped, and he carefully pulls away.

"Ah," he murmurs. "That's why."

Tony stares at him, eyes wide in his warm face, but he manages to snort and turn away. "Yeah, sure," he mutters, playing it cool. But the rough edge to his voice is hard to miss.

"Look, are we gonna hash this out or what?" Steve asks gently. "You know I can't help what Fury makes Clint and Natasha do, and in what condition. You also know you would've made the same call."

Tony glares at him. "You left me here to _babysit aliens_. You say it was to protect me. So who's protecting _you_?" There's real anger here, and Tony's mouth is tight, thin line, and –

Steve can't help it. He smiles. It stretches his face, so much that it aches.

"What the fuck, get off me, why are you laughing," Tony says, scrambling, but he can't really manage to get away.

"I'm sorry, Tony," Steve says, and it's not funny and teasing anymore – he's crushing the other man to his chest, pressing their foreheads together, sliding and nuzzling in so they're cheek to cheek. "I didn't even think that you might worry."

"You're an idiot," Tony says. But the bite's gone out of his voice and he smooths his hands over Steve's back and ribs. Rubs his thumb into each vertebrae. "Steve, really. You had Clint to watch your back, which, okay, awesome. But Natasha was _definitely not at her best_, even though she is _really scary anyway_. And Bruce is – he's great, he's our tank, but. He won't, he won't _save you_ if – "

"You're falling from the sky?" Steve asks softly, and Tony exhales sharply through his nose.

"Right," he admits.

"You should probably talk to Bruce."

"Yeah, I know," Tony mutters. "I just – I'm not a very good friend. I really fucked everything up. For all of us."

"Well," Steve mentions, "it takes two. To fondue."

"I can't believe you just said that, and you're going to break so many hearts when the world finds out how much of a dork Captain America is under all this star-spangled muscle." But Tony's smiling at him, real and true, and he takes Steve's hand.

* * *

He doesn't know what Tony says, or what Bruce says, but the next afternoon they're working together again.

Bruce tells them at dinner – because Steve has _mandated_ team dinners now that everyone is more or less patched up – that Pepper moved to California. Tony looks stricken, and Steve watches him uneasily.

"That's – great," he says haltingly. "I'm glad, I. I mean, the Malibu house is beautiful, she loves it, so." He clears his throat, and Bruce looks sad, but with that faint edge of anger that colors every part of him.

Later, when they're hanging out in Tony's kitchen over bowls of neapolitan ice cream, Steve asks, "Are you okay? About Pepper?"

"I gave her the house, Steve," Tony replies. "I just – didn't think she'd be leaving so soon. And I thought," he starts, and stops. Fiddles with the edge of a pen, drums his fingertips on the countertop. Finally he looks up, and he looks – young. Lost. "She said she'd see me, before she left. She said she'd let me buy her dinner or coffee, or." He shakes his head. "But she just left."

Steve leans back, arms crossed, and gives Tony space.

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Tony mutters, looking at him. There's a strawberry pink smear on his mouth. "You should come over here and comfort me."

"You're talking about Pepper," Steve says, even as he makes his way across the kitchen, and the fact of the matter is that he doesn't know where he fits in, here; if he would make it better or worse, if it's even possible to make it better since Steve is – the reason, maybe, for this. He's not at fault, not like Tony is, but. He was a contributing factor the loss Tony's feeling now, and that's kind of a terrible thing to realize about yourself. Especially in regards to someone you love.

"Yes, but you're my _boyfriend_," Tony points out, like that's the end-all, be-all. Like it's some special, magic title. Like it... holds water, maybe...

Tony's palms come up to cup his face. He looks at Steve for a long time. "This is another one of those things, isn't it," he mutters. "Where I'm really bad at expressing myself." His eyes drop down, and Steve realizes with a full-body flush that Tony's looking at his lips.

"I would say it isn't a thing," Steve replies slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth, "so much as a permanent state of being."

"I don't regret – Pepper," Tony says flatly. "I wish I could've handled this better. I do. I'll never forgive myself for being so shitty about this. In regards to her. But I'm. Steve, I'm in love with you, you _know_ I'm in love with you because I told you, and." He knits his eyebrows together, looks up at Steve again. Honest and perfect, fine lines around his eyes and mouth twisted with the effort of translating how he feels into something Steve can understand, and his arc reactor glowing mutely between them. He's the most beautiful thing Steve has ever gotten his hands on, has ever been given. Has ever been able to keep.

"Look," Tony continues. "I can't be sorry it happened this way. I can't be sorry about anything I've done if. If this is the result. If, at the end of the day, I have you. Steve."

"I think that's a very selfish way to look at things," Steve says quietly, snaking his arms around Tony's waist.

"I feel like your words and body language are contradicting each other," Tony mutters, but he leans his face into Steve's shoulder. It's the best feeling in the world, having this raving lunatic in his arms.

"I didn't say I didn't agree with you," Steve says, huffing out a soft laugh. It's also self-deprecating, and it hurts just a bit. Because it's probably okay to take what you want in life, to be happy, but it's not okay to hurt other people to get it. But if Tony were to leave Pepper for Steve anyway – there was really no way around that from the beginning, and it it was awful, but it _happened_. It didn't happen the best way it could have, but there was no option to do good, here – it could've gone badly, or it could've gone worse.

"It's okay, Tony," Steve says. "We're okay. Thor and Loki are okay, and – and you and Bruce are okay?"

"Yeah," Tony murmurs, kissing Steve's collar bone absently. "We're mostly okay. He feels bad, which makes it easier for him to forgive me." Okay, so Tony is possibly a manipulative asshole sometimes. Or maybe he's just honest.

Steve has plenty of time to figure him out. The knowledge warms him clear through to his bones.

"And I'm sure that – someday you and Pepper can be friends again. Once she's had some time away from you." Steve's uncomfortable with saying this, because obviously it's nothing he can be certain of. He tries to imagine what he'd do if he were Pepper, and he can't.

Tony sighs, and his arms tighten around Steve's neck like a little kid. "Oh, Steve," he mumbles, "once she remembers what life is like without me, she'll never want to see me again."

Steve laughs, a soft, surprised sound, and Tony is smiling, even if there's an edge of grief to it; but they fit together, here, and as long as they have this – as long as they _are_ this, Steve thinks he'll be okay. They both will.

"If I can ever pin you down," Tony says, pulling back a bit to flash a filthy smile, "make you an honest man, just think. They can call us the _super husbands_."

"Oh my god, will you please shut up," Steve whispers against his ear, and this is a preview of what their life is going to be like together: Tony's going to be crazy and Steve isn't going to understand why, a lot of the time. And they're going to have fights – stupid fights, and not-so-stupid ones. They're going to step on each other's toes, and Tony will always have authority issues and the fierce need to protect him, and everyone else he loves, come hell or high water or head injuries. Steve is going to get to come home to him _every single night_.

He can't wait.


End file.
